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DR.  A.  W.  THOMPSON,  Northampton,  Mass.,  says:  "  1  have  tested  the  Gluten 
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"  I  prescribe  the  Gluten  Suppositories  almost  daily  in  my  practice,  and  am  often 
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A  SHARP  NIGHT'S  WORK 


A  POWERFUL  DETECTIVE  STORY 


BY 

JAMES  FRANKLIN  FITT8 


COPYRIGHT  1888 
BY  LAIRD  &  LEE 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD    &    LEE    PUBLISHERS 

CtARK  AND  ADAM*  iTRBETS 


/7M>  ,  l£jasi4X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER,  PACK 

I.  THE  STARTING  POINT 9 

II.  STARTLING  NEWS 14 

III.  To  THE  RESCUE! 20 

IV.  ON  THE  TRACK 26 

V.  A  DESPERATE  EXPEDIENT 32 

VI.  No  SUCH  WORD  AS  FAIL 38 

VII.  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENS 43 

VIII.  THE  LAST  RALLY 49 

IX.  THE  EVIL  EYE 53 

X.  THE  COURSE  or  TRUE  LOVE 56 

XL  THE  TRAIL  or  THE  SERPENT 62 

XII.  THE  DETECTIVE  APPEARS 69 

XIII.  THE  SILENT  WITNESS 75 

XIV.  THE  DETECTIVE  AT  WORK 81 

XV.  SHADOWED  BY  NIGHT 84 

XVI.  THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE 87 

XVII.  UNDER  THE  SPELL 93 

XVIII.  PERVERSE  FATES 97 

XIX.  THE  TELEGRAM 100 

XX.  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE 104 

XXI.  AN  ESCAPE 109 

XXII.  IN  SWIFT  PURSUIT 112 

XXIII.  Too  LATE! 116 

XXIV.  BAFFLED! 119 

XXV.  LIGHT  BREAKS 125 

XXVI.  IN  DARKNESS  AND  DISTRESS 131 

XXVII.  REFUGE  AN^R^coVEHyu:^.^. 135 

XXVIII.  RETRIBUTION*  i^o  JR^uyipiJ .  *v  / 138 

XXIX.  SUNSHINE. THROUGH^  T#E,  Cj+oups^. 144 

XXX.  A  HOR'R'OR}  p£  T^S  iJiaiiT . .;.  .£!v  \ /: 149 

XXXI.  THE  VOICE' OF T^EA'TH  I.'.IVL :..".!'/ 154 

XXXII.  THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION 158 

XXXIII.  RECOMPENSE 165 

XXXIV.  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL 168 


A  SHARP  NIGHT'S  WORK 


CHAPTER  l.:\o  ;    ;  ;    '     . 

THE  STARTING  POINT. 

TUESDAY,  September  i8th,  1877,  at  2:33  p.  m.,  the 
Western  accommodation  was  precisely  on  time  at 
Granby  Station.  One  passenger  only  alighted  there; 
and  as  the  train  departed  without  gaining  any  travelers 
at  this  point,  the  man  was  left  standing  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  platform  fronting  the  little  station.  Not 
another  human  creature  was  at  the  moment  in  sight. 
The  weather  was  unusually  hot  for  the  time,  and  a 
bright  sun  glared  down  upon  the  traveler.  As  his  eye 
glanced  all  about  him,  taking  in  his  surroundings,  he 
looked  unmistakably  weary.  He  had  no  baggage,  not 
even  a  hand-satchel.  He  was  of  medium  height,  spare 
of  form  and  face,  with  iron-gray  hair,  prominent  feat- 
ures, face  slightly  wrinkled,  and  such  blue  eyes  as  he 
who  once  saw  would  turn  to  look  at  again.  They  were 
of  that  cold,  expressionless  hue,  which,  accompanying 
a  thin-lipped  mouth  and  Roman  nose,  give  the  observer 
no  kind  of  index  to  the  character  of  the  man,  or  even 
to  his  present  thoughts.  His  form  was  erect,  spite  of 
the  fact  that  his  years  were  nearer  sixty  than  fifty.  As 
to  his  real  character  there  need  be  no  concealment  here. 
He  was  a  veteran  detective,  grown  old  and  gray  in  the 
skilled  business  of  unearthing  great  crimes  and  bring- 
ing to  justice  great  criminals  against  wealthy  corpora- 
tions at  the  West;  and  although  he  had  lately  retired 
from  this  exciting  and  lucrative  pursuit,  and  had  come 
East  on  an  errand,  the  nature  of  which  will  in  due  time 

M102721 


10  THE    STARTING    POINT 

be  disclosed,  he  had  undertaken  the  journey  of  this  day, 
not  only  because  his  heart  was  in  its  object,  but  because 
his  detective  ability  was  urgently  demanded  to  insure 
its  success. 

The  ticket  agent  within  slammed  down  the  window 
,  <>f  his'ofjfiQe^ridJwalked  lazily  out  into  the  hot  sun- 
shine.- VThe'tra.vtler  accosted  him: 

"•  ;How-jfar  is'it'to,  (Jranby  village?  " 


"  Is  there  no  conveyance?  " 

The  agent  laughed. 

"Sometimes  there  is;  sometimes  not.     It  depends." 

"  Is  there  one  to-day?  "  the  other  impatiently  asked". 

"  By  present  appearances,  I  should  say  not.  This 
seems  to  be  one  of  Simple  Simon's  off-days.  Fact  is," 
he  continued,  in  a  half-apologetic  tone,  "  it  ain't  more'n 
once  a  week  that  anybody  gets  on  or  off  here.  When 
there's  anybody  coming  over  from  the  village  who'll 
pay  Simple  Simon,  as  we  call  him,  a  quarter  to  bring 
him,  he'll  hitch  up  his  old  sorrel  and  come.  Other 
times,  when  he  feels  like  ramblin'  over  to  see  if  there's 
somebody  stopped  off,  he  comes;  but  he  ain't  to  be 
depended  on." 

Possessed  of  so  much  of  the  unpromising  situation, 
the  traveler  snapped  his  fingers  briskly,  and  sent  out 
questions  and  remarks  as  sharply  as  needle  points. 

"  Where  can  I  hire  a  conveyance  to  go  over  to  the 
village?" 

"  You  can't  hire  one.  " 

"  What  —  has  nobody  here  got  a  horse  and  buggy?" 

"  Nobody  but  me;  and  I  don't  hire  mine." 

"  What  might  your  horse  and  buggy  be  worth?" 

The  pride  of  the  country  ticket  agent  was  touched; 
this  man  wanted  to  talk  with  him  about  his  horse,  the 
darling  of  his  heart! 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "  he's  a  good  animal.  He  can 
make  a  mile  in  four  minutes." 

"  Indeed!"  said  the  traveler,  humoring  him, 


THE    STARTING    POINT  II 

"  Fact!  And  that  buggy  was  new  only  three  years 
ago." 

"  I  asked  you  what  they  are  worth?" 

"  Dunno  as  I  want  to  sell;  but  the  horse  ain't  worth 
a  cent  less  than  a  hundred  an'  fifty;  and  the  buggy's 
worth  a  hundred  more. " 

"  See  here,"  and  the  traveler  spoke  rapidly  and  with 
decision:  "  I've  got  to  go  to  Granby,  and  get  back 
here  in  time  for  the  west-bound  night  express.  What's 
its  time?" 

"  Six  twenty-seven." 

"  I  say  I  must  go  over  now,  and  return  here  in  time 
for  that  train.  I  would  give  you  twenty  dollars  for  the 
use  of  your  rig;  yet,  as  the  day  is  very  sultry,  and  time 
presses  me,  I  cannot  promise  to  spare  horseflesh.  You 
say  the  establishment  is  worth  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars;  I'll  buy  it  of  you  and  give  you  fifty  dollars 
over.  If  you  choose  to  take  it  back  to-night  at  a  fair 
valuation,  well  and  good;  if  not,  I  shall  not  complain. 
Here!" 

The  speaker  drew  a  plethoric  wallet  from  his  pocket, 
extracted  from  its  contents  three  one  hundred  dollar 
bills,  and  offered  them  to  the  agent.  The  latter 
mechanically  took  the  money,  but  remonstrated  with 
amazement. 

"  It's  a  dreadful  fair  offer;  but  you  haven't  seen  the 
horse,  nor " 

"  The  bargain  is  closed,  sir  !  "  interrupted  the  trav- 
eler, peremptorily.  We  are  wasting  valuable  time;  fly 
around  lively,  now;  I  must  be  on  the  road." 

The  ticket  agent  hurried  away  to  his  barn,  near  at 
hand,  thinking  that  his  luck  was  wonderful  that  after- 
noon, and  wishing  he  might  know  what  lunatic  it  was 
that  had  just  given  him  three  hundred  dollars  for 
property  that  would  have  been  dear  at  two  hundred, 
and  that  without  seeing  it.  But  the  new  rustling  bank 
notes  in  his  hand  hastened  his  movements,  and  in  ten 
minutes  horse  and  buggy  were  ready  at  the  rear  of  the 


12  THE    STARTING    POINT 

station.  Without  another  word  as  to  the  arrangement 
he  had  made  for  the  return  of  the  property,  the  trav- 
eler climed  into  the  vehicle,  and,  waiting  only  to  get 
directions  as  to  the  road,  he  laid  on  the  whip  at  the 
start,  and  was  off  like  a  shot. 

The  astonished  agent  watched  him  as  he  disappeared 
in  a  cloud  of  dust,  above  which  he  could  see  the  wav- 
ing whiplash.  He  had  not  so  much  as  learned  the 
man's  name! 

"Escaped  from  some  mad-house,  sure!"  was  his 
comment.  "  He'll  break  his  neck  long  before  he  gets 
to  the  village." 

It  was  just  three  o'clock  when  our  traveler  left  the 
Granby  Station.  The  animal  that  he  drove  might 
have  been  as  good  as  recommended,  ordinarily;  upon 
such  a  day  and  such  a  dusty  road,  he  certainly  was  not. 
His  driver  did  not  spare  him.  Never  once  in  that  long 
nine-mile  stretch  was  the  poor  beast  suffered  to  walk 
more  than  a  minute  at  a  time.  The  whip  often 
descended  on  his  dusty,  sweaty  flanks,  and  his  long- 
reaching  trot  was  not  suffered  to  lag. 

"  I  pity  you,  poor  beast!"  the  old  detective  once 
murmured,  as  he  noticed  the  evident  distress  of  the 
animal.  "  Thousands  upon  thousands  of  miles  have  I 
driven  over  the  rough  Western  highways,  and  ever 
have  been  merciful  to  the  horse;  but  this  is  not  the 
time  to  think  of  such  things."  And  the  whip  cracked 
again. 

In  several  houses  on  the  long,  straggling  street  of 
Granby  village  the  clocks  were  striking  four  as  the 
panting,  sweating  horse,  with  hanging  head  and  quiv- 
ering flank,  stopped  before  the  inn.  The  landlord 
came  out  in  his  shirt-sleeves;  two  or  three  loungers  on 
the  bench  before  the  house  roused  themselves  suffi- 
ciently to  stare  at  the  new  comer,  and  wonder  who  he 
was,  any  way. 

The  detective  jumped  out. 

"Landlord,"   he    said,    "look    sharp   here! — listen. 


THE    STARTING    POINT  13 

"  D©  y«u  see  this?"  and  he  thrust  a  ten-dollar 
note  into  his  hand.  "  That  will  pay  you  well  for  all 
you  can  do  for  me.  I  want  your  time,  your  wits,  and 
your  best  service,  quickly  given.  Have  that  horse 
taken  out,  thoroughly  rubbed  down,  watered  in  twenty 
minutes — not  before — fed,  and  then  harnessed,  ready 
to  be  put  in  the  shafts  in  a  minute.  See  to  this,  and 
then  come  back. 

Stimulated  by  the  great  liberality  just  shown,  the 
landlord  succeeded  in  infusing  vitality  enough  into  a 
couple  of  the  loungers  to  get  these  directions  obeyed. 

"  Now,  then,  listen  to  roe,"  said  the  detective,  lead- 
ing the  landlord  off  to  the  end  of  the  platform,  out  of 
hearing.  "  I'm  looking  for  a  man;  he  is  here  in  this 
village,  somewhere.  His  name  is  Ernest  Mulford.  Do 
you  know  him?" 

"  Hain't  no  such  man  here,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Are  you  sure?" 

"  Sartin  sure.  There's  a  matter  of  less'n  three  hun- 
dred people  in  Granby,  and  I  know  'em  all — every  sin- 
ner of  'em.  Nobody  o'  that  name  here,  I  tell  you." 

"  The  name  don't  count  for  much  ;  it  is  the  man  I 
want.  Nothing  is  put  off  and  on  as  easily  as  a  name. 
Are  there  any  strangers  in  the  village?  " 

"  Nary  one." 

The  detective's  face  clouded. 

"  But  since  July,  say  only  two  months  back.  Just 
think,  now,  and  see  if  you  can't  remember  that 
strangers,  new  people,  have  come  in  here  within  that 
time,  and  stayed." 

The  landlord  rubbed  the  stubble  on  his  chin  thought- 
fully, and  said,  slowly: 

"  Why — ye-e-s;  I  guess  there  has  been  one  or  two. 
What  sorter  man  you  lookin'  for?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  him  ;  but  he  is  described  to  me 
by  many  people,  who  have  seen  him,  as  five  feet  eleven 
in  height;  slim  and  active;  brown  eyes  and  hair;  ruddy 


14  STARTLING    NEWS 

face;  abent  twenty-six  years  old.     Now,  what  do 
say?" 

The  landlord  heard,  and  a  remarkable  change  came 
over  his  stolid  countenance.  A  broad  ray  of  intelli- 
gence lighted  it.  He  significantly  pointed  backward 
with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"  You're  pretty  good  on  describing  stranger, "  he 
said,  "  you've  just  exactly  hit  off  a  young  fellow  that 
came  here  'long  the  middle  or  last  of  July,  an'  hain't 
done  nothing  since  but  write  letters  and  never  get  any; 
take  long  walks  all  by  himself;  watch  at  the  postoffice 
for  letters  that  never  come,  and  make  a  fool  of  himself 
gen'r'ly.  He's  been  stayin'  here  with  me,  and  he's 
lyin'  on  that  bench  there  this  minute.  He  goes  by  the 
name  of  Martin  Sammons. 

The  detective  turned  abruptly,  and,  with  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  walked  the  length  of  the  platform  in 
front  of  the  inn.  At  the  further  end  he  turned  and 
walked  back.  Each  time  he  passed  a  little  nearer  to 
the  lounger  on  the  bench,  and  each  time  upon  passing 
he  shot  a  swift  glance  that  way.  Finally  he  halted  and 
stood  still,  directly  before  him.  The  lounger  opened 
his  eyes,  and  drowsily  took  in  the  appearance  of  the 
stranger.  He  closed  them  again,  when  the  detective's 
voice,  low  as  it  was,  broke  like  a  thunder-clap  on  his 
dozing  senses: 

"  Well,  Ernest  Mulford,  ho.w  do  you  find  yourself?  " 


CHAPTER  II. 

STARTLING   NEWS. 

THE  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  and  looked  wildly 
at  the  detective.  He  was  thoroughly  roused  and 
alarmed,  and  the  blood  fled  from  his  cheek.  He  stood 
speechless,  confronting  the  man  who  had  addressed 
him.  The  latter  stood  carelessly,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back,  returning  the  young  man's  gaze  with  a 


STARTLING    NEWS  15 

quiet  look.  His  face  was  absolutely  without  «xpr«6- 
sion. 

"Well!  "he  said. 

"  My  name  is  not  Ernest  Mulford,"  the  other  pro- 
tested. 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is.     Don't  deny  it.     I  know  you,  sir!  " 

The  young  man  heard  the  quiet,  determined  tone, 
and  saw  the  resolute  eyes  that  steadily  regarded  him. 
A  common  expression  best  describes  the  effect  pro- 
duced upon  him.  He  weakened.  Sinking  down  upon 
the  bench  again,  he  said,  with  a  sigh: 

"  Let  it  be  so,  then.  I  don't  care.  Arrest  me,  if 
you  will.  Only,  mind,  I  don't  admit  any  wrong- 
doing! I'm  innocent  of  crime,  I  say!  " 

"  This  is  no  place  to  talk  such  things  over,"  replied 
the  detective.  "  Come  inside  with  me.  I  want  you  to 
go  with  me  to  the  station;  but  I've  something  to  say  to 
you  first. " 

He  led  the  way  into  the  shabby  little  parlor  of  the 
inn,  the  other  doggedly  following  him.  The  detective 
locked  the  doors. 

"  You  admit,  then,  that  you  are  Ernest  Mulford?  " 

"Yes.     What  of  it?" 

"  You  shall  hear.  I  am  Elias  Lear,  late  chief  of  de- 
tectives for  several  great  Western  railroads.  Perhaps 
you  have  heard  of  me." 

"  Yes;  but  I  don't  care.  If  you  are  going  to  arrest 
me. " 

"  I  am  not  going  to  arrest  you,"  said  Mr.  Lear, 
quietly.  "  When  you  said  out  there,  a  moment  since, 
that  you  had  not  committed  any  crime,  you  told  the 
truth.  But  you  have  acted  foolishly,  and  without  judg- 
ment." 

Mulford  began  to  speak,  but  Mr.  Lear  silenced  him 
with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  and  went  on. 

"  It  is  barely  eight  weeks  ago  since  you  left  the  vil- 
lage of  Bardwell,  secretly  and  at  night.  Two  motives 
prompted  you.  The  girl  you  loved  had  rejected  your 


1 6  STARTLING    NEWS 

suit,  as  you  thought,  and  your  heart  was  filled  with 
bitterness.  Just  at  that  time  your  employer  peremp- 
torily dismissed  you  without  giving  any  true  reason  for 
so  doing.  These  two  misfortunes  so  wrought  upon 
you  that  you  hastily  and  unwisely  determined  to  fly 
from  the  place  where  you  had  been  honored  and 
respected  for  years.  Is  this  true?  " 

Ernest  Mulford  sat  with  folded  arms,  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  floor,  silent  under  this  recital. 

"  Since  you  left/'  pursued  Lear,  "  gossip  and 
rumor  have  been  busy  with  your  name.  It  has  been 
reported,  and  it  is  generally  believed,  that  you  were 
discovered  by  your  employer  in  thefts  from  his  safe; 
that  he  accused  you,  and  that,  on  your  confession,  he 
agreed  not  to  prosecute  you  provided  you  would  leave 
town  at  once.  This  story,  I  may  say,  is  believed  by 
nine-tenths  of  the  people  of  that  village." 

"But  it  is  false, "was  the  sullen  reply.  "I  don't 
know  that  it  is  any  of  your  business,  but  since  you  will 
talk  about  it,  I  will  say  that  you  have  found  out  one 
good  reason  for  my  leaving  Bardwell.  Right  off,  after 
that,  when  Mr.  Mayhew  discharged  me  without  fair 
explanation,  I  did  feel  upset,  and  I  left  without  a  word 
to  anybody.  You  say  it  was  unwise;  I  don't  know  nor 
care.  I  have  done  with  that  town  and  its  people;  they 
will  never  see  me  again. " 

"You  will  reconsider  that  determination,  Mr.  Mul- 
ford, within  the  next  fifteen  minutes.  Did  it  never 
occur  to  you  that  there  was  some  connection  between 
your  dismissal  by  that  lady  and  your  dismissal  by  Mr. 
Mayhew?" 

Mulford  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Sit  down  again,  sir;  be  quiet;  let  us  talk.  Have 
you  heard  anything  from  Bardwell  since  you  left 
| there?" 

"No;  not  a  word." 

"  Have  you  written?" 

Mulford  hesitated.     Mr.  Lear  took  his  hand,  and 


STARTLING    NEWS  I  7 

addressed  him  in  a  tone  of  frankness  and  cordiality  such 
as  he  had  not  before  used. 

"  Mr.  Mulford,  we  must  have  an  understanding  at 
once.  I  want  you  to  return  to  Bardwell  with  me;  but 
it  will  not  be  by  compulsion.  I  have  come  here  as  your 
friend;  some  day  you  shall  know  what  it  was  that  made 
me  labor  earnestly  for  you;  it  is  too  long  a  story  to 
tell  now.  Believe  me,  I  want  to  help  you  to  right 
yourself  and  to  prevent  the  consummation  of  the  most 
outrageous  villainy  against  you  and  another.  Will  you 
trust  me?  " 

The  honest  manliness  of  the  words  and  of  the  face 
at  that  moment  prevailed  over  the  young  man's  doubts 
and  bewilderment.  He  silently  returned  the  pressure 
of  the  hand  that  had  taken  his. 

"  Thank  you;  you  do  well  to  trust  me.  Now  tell 
me  why  you  are  still  lingering  here  if  you  have  heard 
nothing  from  Bardwell  since  you  left  there?  " 

"  Because  it  is  only  a  few  hours'  journey  from  there, 
I  suppose.  Because,"  and  his  tone  grew  bitter,  "  be- 
cause, like  many  another  fool  before  me,  I  can't  take  a 
woman's  'No/  and  end  it.  Twenty  times  I  have  re- 
solved to  go  to  New  York  and  enlist  in  the  regulars,  or 
ship  before  the  mast;  once  I  got  as  far  as  Granby  Sta- 
tion on  my  way — and  I  couldn't  go.  Idiot  that  I  am, 
I  can't  give  her  up.  " 

The  pent-up  feelings  of  the  distressed  lover  almost 
prevailed  against  his  manhood.  He  lowered  his  head, 
and  the  quick  ear  of  the  other  heard  a  stifled  sob. 

"  And  you  have  written  to  her?  " 

"  Yes;  and  to  others.  But  nothing  has  come  back 
to  me?" 

"  I  suppose  you  did  not  think,"  drily  remarked  Lear, 
"  of  Mr.  Weston  Mayhew's  commission  as  postmaster 
at  Bardwell?  " 

Mulford  looked  up.  Very  slowly  the  sinister  mean- 
ing of  the  detective's  words  came  to  him.  Then, 

A  Sharp  Nighfs  Work  2 


1 8  STARTLING  NEWS 

as  if  moved  by  an  electric  shock,  he  bounded  to  his 
feet. 

"Great  heaven,  sir!"  he  cried,  "you  don't  mean 
that  that  man " 

"  Weston  Mayhew,"  interrupted  Mr.  Lear,  "  is 
capable  of  anything  to  secure  his  coveted  ends.  What 
he  has  done  and  what  he  proposes  to  do,  you  need  not 
trust  my  word  for;  here  it  is  in  black  and  white.  Look! 
read!  and  then  say  if  you  are  not  only  willing  but 
anxious  to  go  back  with  me." 

He  drew  from  an  inner  pocket  a  large,  square,  stiff 
envelope.  It  seemed  filled  with  inclosures.  First,  he 
took  from  it  a  piece  of  Bristol  board,  upon  one  side  of 
which  were,  neatly  joined  together  and  pasted,  the  torn 
and  minute  fragments  of  a  letter.  The  envelope,  bear- 
ing the  Granby  postmark,  restored  in  the  same  way, 
was  pasted  upon  the  other  side  of  the  board.  Save 
one  small  fragment  the  letter  was  complete,  and  easily 
legible. 

"  That  is  your  writing,  I  presume,"  said  Lear. 

"  One  of  my  letters  to  her/"  gasped  Mulford. 
"  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"  She  never  saw  it ;  you  ought  to  be  able  to  conjec- 
ture, after  what  I  have  told  you,  the  reason  why.  Well, 
we  must  hasten ;  we  have  but  a  few  minutes  more  to 
spend  over  these  things.  Look  over  these  quickly," 
and  he  took  more  inclosures  from  the  envelope.  There 
were  five  of  them.  With  much  labor  and  skill  the  torn 
and  scattered  fragments  had  been  collected  and 
restored. 

"These  are  all  that  I  wrote  to  her,"  said  Mulford 
through  his  teeth. 

Mr.  Lear  tapped  the  envelope.  "  Here  are  also  three 
letters  that  you  mailed  here  to  friends  at  Bardwell. 
Not  one  of  them  was  delivered  to  its  address. " 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful,  sir,  how  did 
you  get  them  and  put  them  together  this  way?  " 

"  No  matter  now.     I  can't  spend  time  to  tell  you. 


STARTLING    NEWS  \§ 

Such  work  is  only  a  bagatelle  to  me  after  the  things  in 
my  line  that  I  have  done  at  the  West.  Do  you  begin 
to  see  through  the  plot?  " 

"  Yes,  and  to  blame  myself  for  being  so  foolish  as  to 
give  that  desperate  scoundrel  such  a  chance  to  ruin  me. 
Yes,  I'll  go  back  with  you;  I'll  confront  him,  and " 

"  Slowly,  Mr.  Mulford.  Brace  yourself  now  for  a 
shock.  The  half  has  not  been  told.  The  woman  you 
love  is  true  to  you,  or  was,  till  your  own  willfulness  put 
it  in  the  power  of  a  villain  to  lie  her  heart  from  you. 
Read  this." 

Another  carefully  restored  letter  he  handed  to  the 
startled  young  man.  The  envelope  bore  the  postmark 
of  Bardwell,  and  it  was  addressed  to  himself  at  Bard- 
well —  a  drop  letter.  He  looked  at  the  date;  it  was 
the  day  next  after  that,  two  months  before,  when  he 
had  last  seen  the  writer.  He  read  the  well-remembered, 
delicate  characters,  and  a  mist  obscured  his  eyes.  He 
kissed  the  paper  passionately. 

"  O,  how  I  have  been  deceived,  betrayed! "  he  cried. 
"  Was  this,  too,  stolen  and  suppressed  by  the  same  bad 
hand?" 
.  "None  other." 

"  Let  us  not  delay  a  moment,"  exclaimed  Mulford, 
rushing  to  the  door  and  unlocking  it.  "  For  God's  sake, 
good  sir,  let  us  hasten!  I  long  to  punish  that  scoundrel, 
and  —  and — " 

The  fervent  desire  to  meet  that  beloved  one  from 
whom  the  basest  villainy  had  separated  him,  was  left 
unexpressed,  but  it  throbbed  eagerly  with  his  heart. 

"  Hold,  my  dear  young  sir;  you  must  know  the  whole 
truth.  Bear  what  is  coming  like  a  man.  I  tell  you 
there  is  that  yet  in  this  choice  repository  of  crime  that 
will  wring  your  heart.  There  is  also  that  which  will 
stagger  you  with  amazement.  Summon  your  fortitude, 
now.  Be  a  man,  I  say.  Read!" 

The  speaker  passed  his  arm  about  Mulford's  should- 
ers, evidently  fearful  of  the  effect  of  the  disclosure  he 


20  TO    THE    RESCUE 

was  about  to  make.  He  had  need  to  be.  The  young 
man  took  the  tinted,  cream-laid  envelope,  and  withdrew 
the  small  sheet  of  similar  paper  from  it,  which  bore 
several  lines  of  print  in  copperplate  script.  His  eyes 
devoured  the  contents  at  a  glance.  He  turned  a  stony 
stare  upon  Mr.  Lear,  and  the  latter  became  aware  that 
the  man's  whole  weight  was  on  his  arm. 
Ernest  Mulford  had  fainted. 


CHAPTER  III. 
TO  THE   RESCUE! 

ELIAS  LEAR  laid  his  inert  bady  down  upon  the 
lounge,  and  vigorously  fanned  the  white,  suffering  face 
with  his  hat.  In  a  moment  the  scattered  senses 
returned,  the  eyes  opened,  and  the  sufferer  sat  up. 
He  saw  the  detective  standing  by  him. 

"  You  are  here,  then  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  have  lived  an 
age  in  the  last  five  minutes.  I  hoped  it  was  a  dream." 

"  It  is  no  dream,  but  a  stern  reality.  Let  us  see  if 
you  can  meet  it  like  a  man/' 

"  Mulford's  eyes  fell  upon  the  tell-tale  invitation-card 
that  had  fallen  from  his  hand.  Snatching  it  up,  he 
carefully  read  it  again.  A  groan  burst  from  his  tortured 
breast. 

"  Lost  —  lost  !  "  he  moaned.  "  Half  past  eight 
o'clock  of  the  evening  of  September  i8y  1877!  It  is 
now;  this  day;  this  very  night!  O  pitying  God,  what 
shall  I  do?  Man,  whoever  you  are,  have  you  brought 
me  this  cruel  news  only  to  torment  me?  What  can  I 
do?  what  can  I  do,  I  say!  " 

His  voice  was  raised  to  a  despairing  cry,  and  he 
clutched  the  detective  by  the  shoulder.  Not  in  the 
least  discomposed  by  his  companion's  words  or 
manner,  Mr.  Lear  consulted  his  watch.  The  minutes 
were  speeding,  the  time  was  now  twenty  minutes 
before  five. 


TO    THE    RESCUE  21 

"  And  you  knew  of  this  monstrous  thing,  "continued 
Mulford,  bitterly.  "  Yes,  you  knew  it  was  to  be;  for 
here  you  have  the  notice  of  it,  in  black  and  white. 
And  you  did  not  stay  at  Bardwell,  to  stop  it,  as  you 
might  have  done,  but  you  must  needs  come  posting 
off  here  to  find  me,  and  torture  me  with  the  ill  tidings 
of  what  I  cannot  prevent.  And  you  tell  me  you  are 
my  friend;  and  you " 

Mr.  Lear's  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder.  Some- 
thing that  he  saw  in  those  cold  blue  eyes  told  him  to 
stop. 

"  I  overlook  your  rashness  and  impatience,"  said  the 
detective.  "  I  know  what  you  are  suffering,  and  I 
sympathize  with  you;  and  I  repeat  that  I  have  come 
here  as  your  friend,  and  that  you  will  soon  be  satisfied 
of  it.  But  you  have  a  right  to  know  why  I  am  here  at 
this  hour,  instead  of  at  Bardwell,  when  that  document 
that  you  hold  in  your  hand  had  warned  me  of  what  was 
to  happen  there,  or  near  there,  at  half-past  eight  of  this 
very  night.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you,  since  there  is  time. " 

He  opened  the  door  and  called  to  the  landlord. 

"  How  is  the  horse?"  he  inquired,  when  the  host 
appeared. 

"  Pretty  stiff  in  the  off  hind  leg,  and  sore  in  the 
flanks.  Pardon,  sir,  but  you  used  the  whip  on  her 
pretty  freely." 

"  I  know  it;  I  had  to.  Can  she  take  two  of  us  back 
to  the  station  in  an  hour?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  "  was  the  positive  reply.  "  She's  fed  and 
watered  well,  but  with  the  pull  you've  already  given 
her,  and  taking  into  account  this  awful  sultry  weather, 
and  there  being  two  of  you  to  go  back — why,  I  say 
she  can't  do  it.  It  would  kill  her." 

"  I  may  have  to  kill  her  then,"  said  Lear.  The 
landlord  stared  at  him. 

"  Have  her  put  to  the  buggy  and  brought  round  at 
once.  Have  you  any  wine  in  the  house?  " 

"  Some  grape  wine,  sir. " 


22  TO   THE    RESCUE 

"  Bring  me  a  large  glass  of  it." 

The  detective  returned  to  the  parlor  with  a  full  goblet 
in  his  hand.  Mulford  was  excitedly  pacing  the  room. 

"  Drink  this,"  said  Mr.  Lear.  "  Your  nerves  are  all 
unstrung;  you  need  a  little  bracing.  This  is  a  mild 
stimulant,  and  will  do  you  good." 

The  young  man  swallowed  it  at  a  draught. 

"  The  conveyance  will  be  at  the  door  in  five  minutes, 
and  we  will  make  a  push  to  head  off  this  magnificent 
rascal." 

"  Of  what  use?  "  Mulford  cried.  "  What  can  we  do 
at  this  late  hour?  " 

"  All  —  everything!"  was  the  cheery  response.  "  On 
the  way  here  I  studied  the  time-table  and  the  train 
stops  of  this  road,  and  everything  is  clearly  laid  out  in 
my  mind.  I  tell  you,  my  boy,  if  the  unexpected  don't 
happen  —  and  men  of  my  business  are  always  on  the 
lookout  for  the  dreadful  unexpected  —  but  if  we  have 
ordinary  luck,  we'll  get  there  in  time  to-night,  defeat 
that  cunning  schemer,  make  Mr.  Ernest  Mulford  a 
happy  man,  and  give  Bardwell  and  vicinity  such  a  sen- 
sation as  has  never  been  known  there. " 

"  Get  there  in  time,  to-night!"  the  other  doubtfully 
repeated.  "Impossible!  I  remember  that  the  evening 
express  is  due  at  Bardwell  a  few  minutes  after  nine. 
It'll  all  be  over  then;  but  by  heaven,  I'll  meet  him  there 
at  the  station  and  kill  him!"  and  the  speaker  clenched 
his  fists. 

"  Young  man,  be  quiet,  and  listen  to  me.  I  won't 
have  any  pistols  or  bloodshed  about  this  affair;  I've 
laid  it  out  differently.  I  believe  we  shall  have  our 
smart  gentleman  inside  the  penitentiary  before  the  first 
of  January;  but  it  will  be  by  taking  my  way,  not  yours. 
Of  course,  I  know  what  time  the  night  express  reaches 
Bardwell;  that  won't  do  for  us,  as  you  say.  Eight 
miles  this  side  of  that  village,  as  you  know,  is  the  little 
way-station  of  Drayton.  Between  those  places  runs 
the  steep  granite  ridge,  over  which  the  highway  is  car- 


TO    THE    RESCUE  23 

ried  «n  a  very  steep  grade — too  steep,  the  engineers 
thought,  for  a  railroad.  That  was  thirty  years  ago, 
when  this  road  was  first  laid  out;  though  I  guess 
engineering  science  wouldn't  make  much  of  it  to-day. 
And  as  the  thick  wall  of  granite  could  never  be  tun- 
neled, they  took  the  line  around  in  a  wide  curve  of 
seventy  miles,  to  a  point  where  they  could  flank  the 
troublesome  ridge. " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  Mulford.  "  I  know  all  this;  but 
I  don't  see " 

"  Patience!"  said  the  detective,  watch  in  hand.  "  The 
train  leaves  Granby,  over  here,  at  six  twenty-seven, 
and  stops  five  minutes  on  a  siding  at  Drayton  for  the 
down  express  to  pass.  It  is  due  at  Drayton  at  seven 
fifteen;  it  is  a  flyer  you  know;  from  there  to  Bardwell, 
around  that  immense  curve,  it  makes  every  mile  in  a 
minute  and  a  half.  But  you  see  our  problem,  getting 
off  at  Drayton,  we  want  to  make  that  eight  miles  to  a 
certain  mansion  just  this  side  of  Bardwell  in  sixty  min- 
utes, leaving  us  fifteen  minutes'  leeway  after  we  get 
there.  Do  you  think  we  can  get  up  that  long  hill  and 
over  there  in  that  time?" 

"  Horse  ready,  sir!"  said  the  landlord,  putting  his 
head  inside  the  door. 

"  Very  well;  in  a  moment." 

Ernest  Mulford  stood  grasping  the  detective's  arm 
with  both  his  hands,  his  eyes  strained,  his  lips  parted, 
his  face  pale,  as  he  fcung  on  the  other's  words. 

"  We  could  do  it;  we  will  —  if  I  can  find  Ted  Vaun 
there  at  the  station.  He's  got  a  pair  of  strong  blacks 
and  a  stout  democrat  wagon;  he  can  do  it  easily. 
And  Ted  was  my  schoolmate;  he'd  do  anything  for  me. 
I  tell  you,  sir,  if  we  can  get  hold  of  Ted  at  Drayton 
we  are  sure  to  be  in  time. " 

"  We  shall  find  him  there,"  said  Mr.  Lear,  quietly. 
"  All  that  a  detective  don't  know  and  ought  to  know 
he  must  pick  up  as  he  goes;  and  I  learned  all  you  have 
told  me  about  Vaun  on  the  slow  accommodation  train 


24  TO    THE    RESCUE 

this  morning.  At  Sunderland,  twelve  miles  back,  I 
telegraphed  to  him  to  be  ready  at  Drayton  Station,  at 
seven  fifteen,  with  his  horses  and  wagon,  promising  him 
twenty-five  dollars  for  a  short  ride;  and  to  make  sure 
that  he  would  heed  the  dispatch,  I  put  your  name 
to  it. " 

"  Good  —  glorious!"  Mulford  shouted.  "  Now  we're 
safe.  Whoever  you  are,  you  are  our  savior,  our  noble 
benefactor;  blessings  on  you,  sir!  —  after  this  night  is 
well  over,  we'll  try  to  thank  you.  But  come,  now;  let 
us  be  going. " 

"  Yet  a  moment,  Mr.  Mulford.  We  must  start  fair; 
there  is  more  yet  that  you  must  know;  and,"  look- 
ing at  his  watch,  which  he  had  not  returned  to  his 
pocket,  "  I  see  that  I  can  spare  two  minutes  to  explain 
to  you  why  I  did  not  stay  at  Bardwell  and  stop  the  vil- 
lainy of  to-night,  instead  of  coming  here.  It  was 
simply  because  I  first  learned,  upon  the  train  that 
brought  me  here,  what  was  going  to  happen  at  that 
house  to-night." 

"Why  —  why!"  Mulford  stammered.  "  Has  it  been 
kept  secret?  " 

"  The  time  —  yes,  remarkably  secret.  Interested  as  I 
have  been  in  these  affairs,  and  continually  making  quiet 
discoveries,  I  could  not  but  see  that  the  scoundrel  was 
shaping  everything  to  this  supreme  end.  Yet  you  will 
remember  that  it  is  barely  two  months  since  you  disap- 
peared from  Bardwell;  and  all  the  probabilities  of  such 
a  case  were  naturally  against  haste  and  secrecy.  But 
Weston  Mayhew  is  cunning  as  well  as  unscrupulous; 
he  is  cunning  as  the  devil,  sir! — and  that's  the  truth. 
Then  he  is  immensely  rich,  as  you  know;  I  am  satis- 
fied that  his  figure  is  not  short  of  two  hundred  thous- 
and. What  cannot  such  a  man  accomplish  in  the  dark? 
If  you  ask  his  motive  for  all  this  secrecy,  it  can  be 
easily  explained.  The  dark  paths  that  he  has  been 
lately  treading,  and  the  criminal  acts  that  he  has  done, 
have  made  him  fearful  for  his  safety.  What  I  am  going 


TO   THE    RESCUE  25 

to  tell  you  in  a  moment  will  furnish  the  best  reason  in 
the  world  for  his  stealthy  movements.  I  am  satisfied 
that  he  does  not  mean  to  be  seen  in  Bardwell  after  to- 
night. You  stare — I  tell  you  it  is  so.  He  knows  that 
a  storm  is  gathering  over  his  head;  he  means  to  be 
west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  or  beyond  seas  when  it 
bursts.  I  learned  yesterday  what  no  one  else  in  Bard- 
well  knows:  that  he  has  forwarded  his  resignation  as 
postmaster,  and  that  he  has  turned  his  whole  property 
into  funds  and  securities.  What  does  that  look  like?  " 

"  Flight  —  and  with  her  to  share  his  disgraceful 
exile!"  Mulford  whispered.  "  If  I  miss  him,  may  the 
vengeance  of  an  insulted  God  overtake  him!  Yet, 
look  at  this  card;  here  is  publicity  after  all.  How  do 
you  account  for  that?" 

"  Merely  by  supposing  that  there  was  a  point  beyond 
which  poor  deceived  Emmanuel  Gregory  and  his  wife 
would  not  go,  and  that  Mayhew  had  to  concede  this  much 
to  them.  The  information  that  I  had  been  gathering  for 
some  weeks  was  at  last  amply  sufficient  to  justify  me  in 
putting  a  sudden  stopper  on  Mr.  Weston  Mayhew,  and  I 
resolved  to  wait  no  longer.  But  when  the  expose  was 
made,  I  wanted  you  there;  in  fact,  you  are  a  necessary 
witness  as  to  the  writing  and  posting  of  those  letters. 
I  knew  where  you  were;  nobody  else  at  Bardwell  knew, 
save  Mayhew.  The  fact  that  you  were  so  near  prob- 
ably hurried  him  up.  But,  much  as  I  have  unearthed 
of  this  man's  villainy,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  car  this 
morning  in  profound  ignorance  of  the  crowning  atrocity 
that  he  had  contrived  for  to-night.  This  side  of  Dray- 
ton  I  overheard  some  of  the  conversation  of  two  ladies 
about  that  invitation.  Detectives  are  not  often  much 
surprised  at  anything;  I  was  by  what  they  said.  They 
left  the  train  at  the  next  station,  and  the  envelope  and 
card  were  left  on  the  seat  in  their  haste.  I  secured 
them,  read  them,  and  thought  very  fast  before  the  next 
station  was  reached.  I  found  that  I  could  not  return 
to  Bardwell  by  railroad  before  the  night  express,  and 


26  ON    THE   TRACK 

that  I  should  lose  no  time  in  continuing  my  journey. 
I  picked  up  the  information  about  Ted  Vaun,  got  an 
opportunity  to  telegraph  to  him  —  and  you  know  the 
rest.  Only,"  and  Mr.  Lear's  voice  grew  solemn  and 
impressive,  "  we  can  see  something  in  all  this  far  beyond 
human  contrivance.  When  I  stepped  aboard  that  train, 
the  only  human  being  who  could  prevent  the  outrage 
of  to-night  was  ignorantly  removing  himself  from  the 
point  of  danger.  The  hand  of  Him  who  watches  over 
the  innocent  was  surely  outstretched  to  throw  that 
astonishing  missive  in  my  way." 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  stepped  into  the  hall.  Mul- 
ford  followed  him.  Mr.  Lear  paused,  and  took  one 
more  inclosure  from  the  great  envelope.  It  was  of  fine 
white  paper,  about  the  size  of  a  bank-bill,  partly  writ- 
ten and  partly  printed.  He  held  it  up  before  the  young 
man's  eyes.  It  was  quickly  read. 

"  Just  God,"  cried  Mulford,  "  let  him  not  escape  us!" 

The  clock  over  the  bar  struck  five. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
ON  THE  TRACK. 

THEY  went  out  to  the  buggy.  Mulford,  in  his  eager- 
ness to  be  off,  jumped  in  first.  With  his  foot  on  the 
step  between  the  wheels,  Elias  Lear  paused,  hesitated, 
staggered  back,  and  would  have  fallen  but  for  the 
promptness  of  the  landlord,  who  sprang  forward  and 
caught  him. 

"  Are  you  sick,  sir?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  little  —  I'm  afraid,"  replied  the  detective,  feebly. 
"  Help  me  back  to  the  parlor." 

Ernest  Mulford,  seeing  and  hearing  what  had  hap- 
pened, got  out  and  called  a  lounger  to  hold  the  horse. 
In  the  parlor  he  found  Mr.  Lear  extended  on  the  sofa, 
while  the  landlord's  wife  was  wetting  his  head  with  a 
sponge.  He  smiled  gravely  as  he  saw  Mulford,  and 


ON    THE    TRACK  2  7 

the  latter  saw  in  his  face  that  he  wished  him  to  come 
close.  The  young  man  did  so,  and  sympathetically 
took  his  hand. 

"  This  isn't  dangerous,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  understand  it  perfectly.  It's  the  after  effect  of  a 
slight  sunstroke.  All  this  afternoon  I  have  felt  it  com- 
ing on  and  have  held  it  back  by  sheer  force  of  will. 
I  couldn't  be  sick,  you  know,  till  I  had  got  you  started 
on  the  right  track.  Go  ahead  now,  and  God  prosper 
you." 

"  But  I  can't  leave  you  in  this  way,"  Mulford  pro- 
tested. 

"  You  can,  and  will.  You  can  do  me  no  good  by 
staying  here.  You  have  heard  nothing  but  the  truth 
from  me  so  far,  and  you  shall  know  the  truth  about 
this.  Three  years  ago,  in  Southern  Missouri,  I  had 
just  such  a  stroke  at  the  end  of  such  another  hot  day 
as  this.  'You  must  be  warned,  Mr.  Lear/  the  doctor 
said,  *  not  to  expose  yourself  long  at  a  time  to  the 
direct  rays  of  the  summer  sun.'  At  that  time,  perfect 
rest  and  quiet  for  twelve  hours  restored  me,  and  I 
doubt  not  that  they  will  do  as  much  now.  Go  on  ; 
you've  no  time  to  lose.  Don't  worry  for  me.  I  shall 
follow  you  to-morrow  morning  and  join  you  —  some- 
where." 

"  You'll  let  them  send  for  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  though  I  am  sure  that  rest  and  quiet 
are  the  only  physicians  I  need.  Wait  just  a  moment." 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily  and  seemed  gathering 
strength  to  say  more. 

"  Take  the  big  envelope  out  of  my  pocket, "  he 
whispered  again.  "  Take  it  along  with  you.  I  need  not 
tell  you  to  keep  those  papers  as  carefully  as  you  would 
your  heart's  blood.  Tons  of  gold  could  not  buy  them." 

Mulford  transferred  the  precious  documents  from  the 
detective's  inside  pocket  to  his  own. 

"  One  last  instruction,"  was  faintly  whispered.  "  Have 
you  any  money?  " 


28  ON    THE    TRACK 

M  A  few  dollars." 

"  Take  out  my  wallet.  There  are  two  thousand  dol- 
lars in  it,  in  large  bills.  Take  half  of  it.  You  are 
starting  on  a  mission,  the  length  of  which  or  the  time 
of  which  no  man  can  know.  You  can  do  nothing  with- 
out money.  Take  it  freely.  I'll  give  you  a  chance  by 
and  by  to  account  for  it,  and  do  you  ri£ver  stop  nor  rest 
till  you  overtake  Weston  Mayhew,  and  foil  him." 

It  was  not  a  time  for  quibbling  or  demurring.  Mul- 
ford  took  the  money,  pressed  Mr.  Lear's  hands,  and 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Once  more  he  sprang  into  the  buggy.  The  landlord 
was  at  the  horse's  head,  his  broad  red  face  overspread 
with  a  look  of  serious  concern  most  unusual  with  him. 

"  You'll  do  everything  for  him,  won't  you?  "  Mulford 
asked,  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins,  nodding  his  head 
toward  the  parlor.  "  You'll  send  for  the  doctor  right 
off?" 

"  O  aye,  sir;  never  you  fear.  Dr.  Sumner  lives  just 
below  here,  and  my  old  woman  is  the  best  nuss  in  the 
country." 

"  Let  go,"  said  Mulford. 

"  Just  one  thing,  young  sir.  I  don't  want  to  blame 
the  gentleman  in  there  for  hard  driving;  I  see  that  some 
deviltry  is  afoot  that  you  two  are  tryin'  to  head  off;  I 
see  that,  from  the  talk  and  actions  of  both  of  you.  But 
the  fact  is,  just  the  same,  that  poor  beast  has  been 
shockingly  put  to  it  this  awful  hot  day,  and  I  tell  you 
he  ain't  now  in  condition  to  travel  three  miles.  And 
you're  going  to  the  station — and  you  mean  to  take  the 
six  twenty-seven  west?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mulford,  impatiently. 

"  What's  the  exact  time  now?  " 

"  Quarter  past  five. " 

"  Well,  sir,  you  may  do  it;  but  you'll  have  a  dead 
horse  on  your  hands  at  the  end  of  the  road." 

"  Have  you  any  horses?  "  Mulford  demanded. 

"  No;  and  I  dunno  where  you'd  find  one  here." 


ON    THE   TRACK  29 

"  Then  it  can't  be  helped.  Let  go  his  head,  will 
you?  " 

The  landlord  did  so,  and  placed  a  small  sponge  and 
bottle  at  the  young  man's  feet. 

"  There's  some  spirits,"  he  said,  "  when  he's  ready 
to  drop  in  the  harness,  sponge  out  his  nose,  and  you 
may  get  a  mile  or  two  more  outen  him. " 

With  a  cut  of  a  whip,  the  animal  sprang  away.  The 
hamlet  of  Granby  was  quickly  left  behind,  and  the 
long,  straight  stretch  of  the  road  over  to  the  station 
was  before  them. 

For  the  first  three  miles  the  horse  kept  up  a  long 
trot  without  much  urging.  Then  the  whip  had  to  be 
used  to  urge  the  tired  limbs  off  from  a  walk.  Short 
spurts  of  trotting  slackened  into  a  walk,  and  then  into 
a  dead  halt.  The  heat  at  this  hour  was  the  most 
oppressive  of  the  day.  But  for  the  powerful  excite- 
ment that  strung  every  nerve  and  muscle  to  action, 
Mulford  would  have  sunk  listless,  like  the  poor  dumb 
brute,  under  the  burden  of  the  sun  and  the  atmosphere. 
As  it  was,  he  hardly  noticed  them. 

Half  the  distance  was  passed.  Far  away  eastward  he 
heard  a  faint  but  prolonged  note,  shrill  and  clear,  faint 
as  it  was. 

"  What's  that?  "  he  inquired  of  a  man  who  leaned  on 
his  gate  and  fanned  himself  with  his  broad-leaved 
hat. 

"'What?" 

"  That  sound." 

The  rustic  listened. 

"  Wai,  I  declare!  Must  be  a  mighty  clear  air  to-day, 
if  it  is  hotter  'n  Tophet.  That's  the  Western  express 
whistling  for  Somers.  I  don't  hear  it  more  'n  three  times 
a  year." 

"  How  far  is  it?  " 

"Twelve  miles." 

Mulford  had  ceased  looking  at  his  watch.  He  put 
on  the  lash.  The  horse  sprang  away;  the  lash  was 


36  ON    THE   TRACK 

repeated;  two  painful  miles  were  passed.  Then  there 
was  a  dead  stop.  The  driver  jumped  out,  filled  his 
sponge  from  the  bottle,  rubbed  it  freely  over  the  nose 
and  head  of  the  beast,  and  let  him  snuff  the  contents. 

"  You  poor,  brave  creature !"  he  thought.  "  I  do  pity 
you;. but  I  can't  spare  you,  indeed  I  can't." 

Back  in  his  seat,  he  urged  the  horse  with  his  voice, 
and  a  fair  speed  was  kept  up  for  another  mile.  Then 
the  pace  slackened. 

One  mile  and  a  half  still  lay  between  Ernest  Mulford 
and  Granby  Station. 

"  It  might  as  well  be  a  thousand,"  he  groaned,  "  with 
this  miserable  blown  animal." 

Another  noise  caught  his  ear.  It  was  a  faint  rumble, 
a  faint  roar;  and  far  off  to  the  eastward  he  saw  a  tiny 
thread  of  black  smoke  lengthening  out  over  the  tree 
tops. 

The  express  was  near  at  hand  on  its  rapid  flight. 

Unmercifully,  unsparingly,  now  did  he  lay  the  whip 
on  the  quivering,  smoking  flanks  of  the  stiff  and  ex- 
hausted animal.  He  snorted  under  the  punishment, 
and  with  a  wild  neigh  of  fright  broke  into  a  gallop. 
The  buggy  swayed  to  and  fro  with  the  speed.  The 
driver  clutched  the  reins  with  one  hand  and  laid  on  the 
lash  with  the  other.  With  frantic  bounds  the  horse 
sped  along  the  dusty  road.  Mulford  heard  the  clang 
of  the  bell,  the  rumble  of  the  wheels,  and,  panting 
under  the  whip,  the  animal  stopped  at  the  rear  of  the 
station,  and  fell  in  the  shafts. 

Mulford  got  out  and  rushed  around  the  building. 
The  train  stood  on  the  track;  there  was  some  bustle 
and  confusion.  He  saw  three  or  four  at  the  window 
buying  tickets,  and  he  stepped  up  there.  Two  or  three 
more  followed  him. 

"  Drayton,"  he  said,  laying  down  a  bill  when  his  turn 
came. 

The  agent  seemed  almost  bewildered  by  the  unusual 
occurrence  of  half  a  dozen  people  wanting  tickets  for 


ON  THE   TRAGIC  3! 

the  same  train.  It  was  a  rare  thing  at  Granby.  He 
seemed  to  want  to  say  something  to  the  man  who  had 
demanded  a  ticket  for  Drayton.  He  looked  at  him, 
and  saw  three  other  men  pressing  up  behind  him.  He 
saw  the  conductor  walking  the  platform,  and  knew  that 
there  could  be  but  a  moment  more  of  delay,  and  he 
gave  it  up,  or  rather  he  handed  Mulford  his  ticket  and 
change,  and  in  the  pressure  of  the  moment  forgot  what 
it  was  he  was  trying  to  say  to  him. 

Mulford  went  out  on  the  platform.  A  hand  was  laid 
on  his  arm. 

"  Your  horse  is  dead,  sir,"  said  a  man. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  young  man,  "  but  I  had  to 
crowd  him.  Who  are  you?  " 

"  Simple  Simon,  sir,  at  your  sarvice." 

"  Ah  —  the  village  expressman.  Here  —  take  this; 
bury  the  horse,  and  take  care  of  the  buggy.  I'll  be  up 
this  way  again  before  long,  and  see  you  about  it. " 

He  turned  away,  leaving  Simon  in  that  excited  state 
of  mind  that  the  gift  of  a  five  dollar  bill  would  naturally 
produce  upon  him. 

"All  aboard!"  the  conductor  shouted.  The  bell 
clanged.  Mulford  entered  a  car.  The  train  was 
crowded;  he  procured  a  seat  with  some  difficulty. 

The  sun  had  set  twenty  minutes  before.  The  brief 
twilight  was  closing.  The  shadows  of  night  were  fast 
enveloping  the  familiar  objects  about  the  station  as  the 
train  pulled  out  and  gathered  headway.  Like  a  giant 
refreshed,  the  engine  sped  onward,  faster  and  still  faster, 
drawing  its  living  burden  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and 
fear,  care  and  content.  On,  on,  at  full  speed  now, 
thundered  the  long  train,  with  a  rush  and  roar  like  the 
bellowing  of  some  demon  of  the  Arabian  Nights  let 
loose  on  earth;  over  rivers,  along  precipitous  heights, 
through  tunnels  and  past  villages  and  farms,  it  fled  at 
the  rate  of  forty  miles  an  hour.  Sitting  by  the  car 
window,  watching  the  lights  that  flashed  suddenly  out 
of  the  darkness  along  the  way  and  as  suddenly  disap- 


32  A    DESPERATE    EXPEDIENT 

peared,  Ernest  Mulford  felt  his  heart  bound  and  swell 
with  the  proud  feeling  of  triumph  yet  to  come,  soon  to 
come.  He  felt  that  he  was  to  be  vindicated;  that  the 
love  of  which  he  had  been  robbed  by  the  most  cruel 
villainy  was  to  be  restored  to  him;  that  swift  and  heavy 
punishment  was  about  to  descend  upon  the  guilty. 
His  heart,  if  not  his  lips,  continually  murmured: 

"In   time!  —  in  time!  —  Heaven  bring  me  there  in 
time!" 


CHAPTER  V. 
A   DESPERATE  EXPEDIENT. 

"TICKETS!" 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  fleeting  lights  and 
shadows  outside;  he  did  not  hear  the  familiar 
demand. 

"  Your  ticket,  sir,  please." 

The  conductor's  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 
He  started,  looked  up  at  the  bearded  face  of  the  official, 
which  was  becoming  slightly  clouded  with  vexation  at 
the  delay,  comprehended  what  was  wanted,  and  taking 
his  ticket  from  his  vest  pocket,  handed  it  over.  The 
conductor  took  it,  glanced  at  it,  and  looked  with  a 
frown  at  the  passenger. 

"  Dray  ton,"  he  said,  snappishly.  "  Dray  ton!  Well, 
I'll  be  hanged  if  some  of  these  agents  will  ever  learn 
anything.  Did  you  get  this  at  Granby?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  The  stupid  dolt!  I  told  him  myself,  not  twenty 
minutes  ago,  that  Drayton  was  off  the  card  for  this 
train;  that  the  new  table  was  out,  and  he  would  have 
one  to-morrow;  and  to  be  sure  not  to  sell  Drayton 
tickets  for  this  train." 

The  conductor  handed  the  ticket  back. 

"  There's  no  help  for  it,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I'll  take  you 
on  to  Bardwell  without  charge,  since  you  're  not  to 


A    DESPERATE    EXPEDIENT  33 

blame,  and  you  can  come  back  by  the  accommodation 
in  the  morning. " 

He  spoke  quick  and  brusquely,  as  is  often  the  way 
with  his  class,  and  passed  on.  He  felt  a  hand  on  his 
arm,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  Mulford  had  risen 
up,  and  showed  a  white,  rigid  face  to  him. 

"  Sir,"  he  asked,  "  do  you  mean  to  say  that  this  train 
will  not  stop  at  Drayton  to-night?  " 

"  Well,  that's  about  the  size  of  it." 

"  I  understood  that  this  train  waited  there  for  the 
express  east  to  pass?  " 

"  It  did  yesterday;  it  won't  to-night.  They  pass  at 
Bardwell  now. " 

"  The  public  have  had  no  notice  of  this,  sir.  Your 
agent  sold  me  that  ticket  and  took  my  money,  without 
notice  or  explanation.  I  demand  that  you  let  me  off 
at  Drayton." 

"  O,  come  now,  young  man,  don't  put  on  airs.  I 
guess  I  know  what  I'm  about.  This  is  disagreeable  for 
you,  to  be  sure,  but  you've  got  to  stand  it.  I  know 
my  business  and  I  shan't  stop  for  you.  So  you  take  it 
cool.  And  I  guess  it  ain't  a  matter  of  life  or  death 
with  you,  either. " 

"  The  happiness  or  misery  of  my  whole  future 
depends  upon  my  stopping  at  Drayton  to-night." 

The  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone  of  such  pathos  that 
the  conductor  turned  about  and  held  his  lantern  up  to 
scrutinize  the  face  of  the  speaker.  What  he  saw  there 
impressed  him. 

"Wait  a  few  minutes,"  he  said;  "  I'll  be  back  presently 
and  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  for  you." 

At  the  rate  of  forty  miles  an  hour  the  train  rushed 
noisily  through  the  darkness.  After  what  seemed  to 
Ernest  Wolford  an  intolerable  time,  but  which  was  only 
fifteen  minutes,  the  conductor  returned. 

"Well!  "he  said. 

A  Sharp  NighCs  Work  3 


34  A   DESPERATE    EXPEDIENT 

"  I  must  stop  at  Drayton,"  was  the  decided  state- 
ment of  the  passenger. 

The  people  who  filled  the  neighboring  seats  had 
become  interested  in  the  difficulty.  Those  who  sat  in 
front  turned  round,  and  those  sitting  back  of  Mulford 
craned  their  necks  forward. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  strictly  right, "  said  the  conductor. 
"The  blunder  of  that  lunkhead  of  an  agent  at  Granby 
has  given  you  the  advantage.  But  I  tell  you  kindly, 
sir,  that  I  have  my  orders,  and  I  cannot  stop  at 
Drayton." 

"  Cannot!"  Mulford  cried.  "You  have  only  to  pull 
that  bell-cord. " 

"  If  I  did  I  might  never  have  a  chance  to  pull  it  after 
this  trip,"  said  the  conductor,  grimly.  "In  other 
words,  I  dare  not  stop.  This  is  the  first  night  of  the 
new  arrangement  of  the  express  trains  meeting  at 
Bardwell,  and  I  must  be  on  time.  To  lose  the  head- 
way that  this  stop  would  cause,  would  make  me  ten 
minutes  late  there.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  I  can't  risk 
it.  I  must  obey  orders,  and  you  can  settle  your  griev- 
ance with  the  company. " 

"  Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  to  me?"  Mulford  asked. 
"  I  thought  you  said  you  would  see  what  you  could  do 
for  me.  What  made  you  say  that?  Look  here,  sir! 
I  must  and  will  leave  this  train  at  Drayton.  If  you 
refuse  to  stop  it,  I  shall  leave,  just  the  same.  Perhaps 
that  will  give  you  a  better  showing  with  the  company! 
I  call  on  these  passengers  to  witness  the  outrage;  this 
company  sold  me  a  ticket  for  Drayton,  and  now  refuses 
to  let  me  off  there.  And  if  I  am  carried  to  Bardwell 
to-night,  untold  misery  to  good  people  will  be  the  con- 
sequence." 

He  became  vehement,  raising  his  voice  till  it  rang 
through  the  car  and  sounded  above  the  rattle  and 
rumble  of  the  train.  Not  I,  reader,  and  not  you,  ever 
heard  just  such  an  appeal  made  in  such  a  place;  nor 
did  we  probably  ever  see  a  man  possessed  by  such 


A    DESPERATE    EXPEDIENT  35 

intense  and  desperate  agony  of  soul  as  fired  that  of 
Ernest  Mulford  in  that  moment.  The  nearest  passen- 
gers looked  sympathizingly  at  him;  but,  as  is  the  way 
of  spectators  in  general  of  other  people's  distress,  they 
said  nothing,  and  none  of  them  ventured  to  interfere. 

"Well,  don't  get  huffy,"  the  conductor  said.  "I 
will  do  all  I  can,  all  I  dare  to  do  for  you.  I  will  slow 
up  as  we  pass  Drayton,  and  —  you  can  jump  if  you 
want  to." 

"Good!"  said  Ernest,  with  deep  relief.  "Excel- 
lent! I  thought  you  were  a  man.  I'll  take  the 
jump." 

"  Mind,  now;  I  don't  tell  you  to  jump!  I  don't  even 
permit  it;  you're  a  fool  if  you  do.  You'll  take  all  the 
responsibility." 

"  I  make  no  bargain,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  are 
bound  to  let  me  off  at  Drayton.  If  you  won't  stop,  I 
shall  get  off  the  best  way  I  can." 

11  You've  good  pluck,  any  way,"  muttered  the  con- 
ductor. "  You'd  make  a  splendid  railroad  man. " 

The  prolonged  scream  of  the  whistle  and  the  clang 
of  the  bell  were  at  this  instant  borne  back  to  them. 

"  That's  for  the  road-crossing,  three  miles  this  side," 
he  continued.  "  If  you're  bound  to  leave  at  Drayton, 
you'd  better  get  out  on  the  platform." 

He  hastened  along  through  the  car.  Ernest  Mulford 
rose  and  walked  to  the  opposite  end.  Unclosing  the 
door,  he  stepped  out  upon  the  platform.  Grasping  the 
rail  with  each  hand,  he  descended  cautiously  to  the 
lowest  step  upon  the  side  where  he  remembered  that 
the  Drayton  station  stood.  A  brakeman  stood  above 
him  with  his  hands  on  the  brake-wheel,  waiting  for  the 
signal. 

"  It's  going  to  be  risky,  sir,"  he  shouted.  "  We 
can't  check  this  speed  enough  to  make  it  safe.  Better 
not  try  it." 

Mulford  heard  him,  but  gave  no  heed.  Tightening 
his  grasp  on  the  rails,  he  leaned  over  and  peered  for- 


36  A   DESPERATE   EXPEDIENT 

ward.  The  roar  of  the  train  was  in  his  ears,  but  he 
hardly  observed  it;  he  was  not  then,  as  at  any  other 
time  he  must  have  been,  impressed  with  the  fascinating 
peril  of  his  position.  There  he  stood,  clinging  to  the 
rails,  within  eighteen  inches  of  the  solid  ground,  yet 
borne  onward  with  such  velocity  that  a  single  step  at 
that  moment  would  have  hurled  him  into  eternity! 

He  thought  not  of  that;  he  thought  not  of  death  or 
danger;  his  yearning  soul  was  speeding  far  in  advance 
of  the  train,  over  the  miles  that  still  lay  between  him 
and  the  mansion  just  out  of  Bardwell. 

The  stars  were  dim  in  the  sky;  the  landscape  was 
rather  obscure;  the  air  was  cool  and  refreshing  after  the 
intense  heat  of  the  day,  and  the  rtfsh  of  it  fanned  his 
face,  now  glowing  with  anticipation. 

Familiar  objects  began  to  flit  by.  There  was  a  lofty 
elm  near  by  that  he  remembered;  a  white  house,  a  half- 
burned  barn. 

The  train  passed  under  a  road-bridge;  he  knew  it 
well.  He  remembered  the  slight  curve  by  which  this 
station  was  approached.  He  peered  forward  again. 
There  was  the  high  light,  plainly  in  view. 

The  whistle  sounded  in  a  prolonged  shriek.  He  heard 
the  rush  of  escaping  steam.  The  brake- wheel  crunched 
harshly  behind  him.  He  saw  the  end  of  the  station 
and  the  platform  before  it  coming  into  view. 

Twenty  car- windows  were  up,  and  eager  eyes  watched 
him.  The  passengers  shuddered  at  the  peril  he  was 
braving.  They  saw  and  knew  what  he  did  not  —  what 
he  would  not  have  heeded  had  he  plainly  seen  and 
known  it  —  that  the  speed  of  the  train,  although  largely 
slackened,  was  too  great  for  such  an  attempt.  It  could 
not  have  been  much  less  than  twenty  miles  an  hour. 

Opposite  the  door  of  the  little  station  he  jumped. 

His  feet  struck  the  platform  together.  The  impetus 
he  had  gained  carried  him  two  or  three  steps  further, 
whirled  him  about  and  flung  him  over.  He  fell  pros- 
trate, his  head  striking  heavily  as  he  came  down. 


"  NO    SUCH    WORD    AS    FAIL77 


CHAPTER  VI. 


THE  train  thundered  on  toward  the  ridge,  and  quickly 
disappeared  in  the  woods  that  fringed  its  base.  Ernest 
Mulford  lay  still  and  senseless  where  he  had  fallen. 

A  short  distance  in  rear  of  the  station  two  men  stood 
by  the  fence  at  the  side  of  the  highway.  One,  a  tall, 
strong  fellow,  in  a  blouse  and  overalls,  held  by  the  bits 
two  spirited  horses,  that  fidgeted  uneasily  as  the  train 
went  by;  the  other,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looked 
at  the  flitting  phantom  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Seems  odd  enough  not  to  have  the  old  flyer  stop 
here,"  he  said.  "  I  came  over  only  from  force  of  habit 
to-night.  Nothing  to  do  here.  What  brought  you, 
Ted?  You  must  have  known  this  morning,  when  you 
got  that  dispatch,  that  your  man  couldn't  stop  here  if 
the  train  didn't." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it.  Don't  know  what  made  me  come. 
I  expect  it  was  my  anxiety  to  do  something,  or  try  to 
do  something  to  oblige  Erny  Mulford —  God  bless  him! 
You  don't  know  what  a  big-hearted  fellow  that  is,  Mr. 
Robbins,  nor  how  he  has  helped  me  since  we  were  at 
school  together.  I  want  to  be  able  to  tell  him,  when  I 
see  him  again,  that  I  was  here  with  the  blacks  to-night, 
all  ready  hitched  up,  waitin'  for  him,  and  willin'  and 
anxious  to  serve  him,  if  he  could  ha'  stopped." 

"  What  d'ye  suppose  he  wants?  " 

"  Well,  I  dunno,  but  I  guess  he  wants  to  drop  in 
on  'em  over  at  Gregory's  to-night." 

The  station-master  gave  a  prolonged  whistle.  The 
two  as  they  talked  had  left  the  horses,  which  Ted  Vaun 
had  haltered  to  the  fence,  and  walked  over  to  the  plat- 
form. They  were  continuing  their  talk  of  what  was 
about  to  happen  at  Mr.  Gregory's,  and  what  Mulford 
could  mean  by  interfering,  when  they  both  at  the  same 
instant  discovered  the  body  of  the  latter  where  he  had 


"  NO    SUCH    WORD    AS    FAIL  "  39 

fallen.  Hastily  unlocking  the  door,  the  agent  procured 
his  lantern,  lit  it,  and  stooped  down  to  examine  the 
fallen  man. 

"  Is  he  badly  hurt?  "  Ted  anxiously  asked. 

"  Can't  tell.  It  looks  as  though  the  fool  had  jumped 
off  the  flyer,  and  got  the  breath  knocked  out  of  him, 
any  way.  Bring  him  in  here,  and  I'll  look  him  over." 

Ted  lifted  his  friend  bodily  in  his  strong  arms  as  easily 
as  though  he  had  been  an  infant,  and,  following  the  agent 
into  his  office,  laid  him  down  upon  the  lounge.  They 
loosened  his  clothes  and  dashed  some  water  in  his  face. 
Mulford  groaned  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Where  am  I?  "  he  asked.     At  Gregory's?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  Erny;  you're  here  at  Drayton,"  Ted  re- 
sponded. "  And  I  can  tell  you,  my  lad,  you  came 
pretty  near  being  in  Heaven,  with  your  foolishness. " 

"  Take  me  on  to  Gregory's,"  Mulford  murmured. 
"  Don't  delay  a  moment.  Ted,  drive  your  horses 
round  here,  and  we'll  get  in.  You  must  get  there 
before  half-past  eight. " 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  injured  Internally,"  the  agent  said, 
passing  his  hands  over  his  body  and  limbs.  "  Yet  I 
don't  see  that  any  bones  are  broken. " 

The  wandering  senses  of  the  sufferer  were  arrested 
by  the  words.  He  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  with  an 
effort  that  contorted  his  face  with  pain,  he  sat  upright. 

"  My  watch,"  he  said.     "  Show  it  to  me.  " 

Ted  took  it  from  his  pocket  and  held  it  up  to  him. 
The  hands  had  stopped  with  the  shock  of  his  fall  at 
seventeen  minutes  past  seven. 

"  Mr.  Mulford,"  the  station-master  interposed, 
"  please  lie  down  and  be  quiet.  Do  you  feel  any  pain?  " 

"No;  only  a  kind  of  faintness  and  a  ringing  in  my 
head." 

"  Mighty  lucky  he  didn't  have  concussion  of  the 
brain,"  the  agent  muttered  to  Ted.  "  It  was  a  narrow 
escape." 


40  "  NO   SUCH    WORD    AS    FAIL  " 

"  I  say,  Teddy,"  Mulford  now  eagerly  demanded, 
"  you  got  that  telegram,  didn't  you?  " 

"Yes,  Erny;  but " 

"  And  you've  got  your  horses  and  wagon  here,  of 
course?  " 

"Yes;  but  you " 

"  Then  let's  start  right  away.  I  must  be  at  Gregory's 
before  half-past  eight.  You  can  make  it,  can't  you, 
Ted?" 

"  O,  yes;  but  you  see " 

He  looked  appealingly  at  the  agent,  who  instantly 
interposed: 

"  Mr.  Mulford,  listen  to  me,  and  see  if  you  can  com- 
prehend a  little  reason.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  doctor  myself, 
and  you  are  at  present  under  my  care.  You  have 
closely  escaped  a  most  serious,  and  probably  fatal, 
injury,  and  your  whole  system  has  been  severely  shaken 
by  the  shock  you  have  given  it.  Added  to  this,  I  see 
you  are  laboring  under  strong  mental  excitement.  I 
tell  you  that  the  consequence  of  your  going  on  to 
Bardwell  to-night  would,  in  all  probability,  be  a  brain 
fever.  Do  you  comprehend?" 

The  patient  looked  at  him,  wearily  but  steadily. 

"  Yes,  I  comprehend;  but  I  shall  go,  all  the  same." 

The  agent  lost  his  temper. 

"  See  here,  sir;  you  don't  stir  a  foot  out  of  this  build- 
ing before  morning.  Lie  down  there,  instantly.  I'll 
give  you  an  opiate  and  send  over  for  .Dr.  Morton." 

Ernest  rose  to  his  feet.  He  was  weak  and  dizzy,  and 
his  legs  trembled  under  him.  Ted  Vaun  promptly 
threw  an  arm  about  him  and  held  him  up. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Robbins,"  said  Ernest, 
huskily,  "  and  you  mean  to  do  the  best  you  can  for 
me,  but  you  don't  understand  how  I  feel  about  this 
affair.  I'll  take  no  opiate !  Sleep,  sir!  You  want  me 
to  sleep t  at  such  a  time  as  this,  when  I  alone  can  frus- 
trate the  plans  of  the  wicked,  and  save  helpless  and 
deceived  innocence?  No,  sir!  I'll  go  to  Mr.  Gregory's 


"  NO   SUCH    WORD   AS    FAIL  "  41 

with  Ted  if  it  kills  me.  I'd  go  if  I  knew  it  would  kill 
me.  Don't  argue  with  me;  don't  try  to  dissuade  me. 
Where's  my  hat?  Teddy,  help  me  out  to  the  wagon. 
Good  night,  Mr.  Robbins;  a  thousand  thanks  to 
you." 

Before  such  a  resolute  spirit  as  this,  speaking  in  the 
voice  and  shining  out  of  the  eyes  of  this  heroic  man, 
good  Mr.  Robbins  weakened.  He  saw  that  all  con- 
tention was  useless,  and  bestirred  himself  to  do  the 
best  he  could  for  his  stubborn  charge.  He  was  by 
Ernest's  side  before  he  could  take  a  step. 

"  Just  a  moment,"  he  said,  with  the  utmost  kindness 
in  his  voice.  "  If  you're  bound  to  go  I  won't  try  to 
detain  you;  but  you  must  let  me  send  you  off  a  little 
refreshed." 

"Time  is  passing;  I  can't  wait, 'r  was  the  impatient 
reply.  "  For  God's  sake,  let  me  go." 

The  agent  took  out  his  watch. 

"Half-past  seven,"  he  said.  "Ted,  in  how  much 
less  than  an  hour  can  you  make  it?  " 

The  man  switched  some  loose  papers  on  the  floor  as 
he  replied: 

"  It's  a  little  short  of  eight  miles  to  Gregory's.  I 
can't  rise  the  hill  this  side  short  of  twenty  minutes. 
After  that,  there's  most  six  miles  of  beautiful  down 
road.  The  blacks  have  done  that,  a  mile  in  four  min- 
utes, many  a  time.  Say  fifty  minutes,  at  the  out- 
side." 

"  That  gives  you  ten  minutes  to  spare,"  said  the 
agent,  briskly.  "  I  want  only  one  of  those  minutes." 

He  hastened  to  his  desk,  unlocked  it,  and  produced 
a  stout  wicker  flask. 

"  It  is  brandy,"  he  said  as  he  uncorked  it.  "  I  keep 
it  here  for  sudden  emergencies  like  this.  Drink  !  " 

He  offered  it  to  Mulford,  who  put  it  away. 

"  Thank  you,  I  never  use  it. " 

"  But  you'll  take  a  good  dram  of  it  now,"  cried  the 
agent,  "  or  Ted  shall  hold  you  and  I'll  force  it  down 


42  "  NO    SUCH    WORD    AS    FAIL  " 

your  throat.  Here  you  are  suffering  from  a  shock  to 
your  whole  system,  not  fit  physically  to  be  out  of  bed, 
just  about  crazy  yourself  with  nervous  and  mental 
excitement,  and  you're  going  to  ride  eight  miles  in  an 
open  wagon.  Take  it,  I  say,  without  any  more  fuss  ; 
I  know  what's  good  for  men  in  your  condition." 

Ernest  took  a  draught  from  the  flask.  The  strong 
stimulant  coursed  through  his  veins  and  colored  his 
cheek  ;  he  felt  instantly  strengthened  and  braced  for  the 
work  before  him. 

Without  further  parley  Ted  Vaun  led  the  way  to  his 
horses  and  unhitched  them.  Ernest  climbed  to  the  seat 
without  assistance,  and  Ted  was  quickly  by  his  side. 

"  Good-night,"  shouted  Mr.  Robbins,  "  and  good 
luck  !  " 

"  Good-night !  " 

Ted  gathered  up  the  reins.  "  Hie  up  !  "  he  chirruped 
to  his  horses,  and  they  reached  out  in  a  steady  trot. 

"  Put  on  the  lash  !  "  Ernest  cried.  "  Teddy,  my 
dear  fellow,  don't  spare  them. " 

"  Don't  fret,  Erny.  I  know  how  to  get  speed  out  of 
these  animals.  The  hill  is  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off; 
they'll  get  cleverly  warmed  up  by  the  time  they  get  to 
it,  so  they  will  climb  like  sailors." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  walk  them  all  the  way  up  that 
hill  ?  "  Ernest  cried,  impatiently. 

"  Every  step  of  it,  my  boy.  Do  you  want  me  to 
run  'em  up  and  founder  'em  ?  You  keep  cool,  Erny ; 
give  me  twenty  minutes  for  the  rise  and  then  I'll  spin 
you  down  the  slope  t'other  side  in  a  way  that'll  make 
you  hold  your  hair  on." 

To  the  base  of  the  hill  the  noble  team  went  with  a 
swinging  trot.  The  driver  held  the  reins  in  his  left 
hand,  while  his  teeth  labored  at  an  enormous  plug  of 
tobacco  grasped  in  the  other.  .  His  hat  was  drawn  down 
to  his  eyes  ;  his  eyes  were  steadily  bent  on  the  road, 
over  and  beyond  the  horses'  heads. 

Ernest  Mulford  sat  rather  bent  forward,  also  looking 


THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS  43 

ahead.  His  hand  grasped  the  iron  rim  at  the  end  of 
the  seat;  his  heart  throbbed  madly;  he  took  no  heed 
of  the  pains  that  shot  through  his  limbs  and  body. 
He  was  conscious  of  a  strange  exhilaration  of  spirits  as 
he  entered  on  the  last  stage  of  his  journey.  Every 
breath  he  drew  was  taken  with  an  unuttered  prayer 
that  he  might  not  be  too  late;  each  throb  of  his  heart 
was  audible.  One  thought,  one  aspiration,  one  prayer 
filled  his  mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else — "  O  God  of 
the  helpless  and  the  innocent,  bring  me  there  in 
time!" 

And  the  wheels  seemed  to  echo  the  prayer  in  their 
swift  revolutions,  the  gentle  night-breeze  seemed  to 
murmur  it.  Nature  in  her  evening  slumber  seemed  so 
full  of  sympathetic  voices,  that  the  words  were  con- 
tinually ringing  in  his  ears: 

"  In  time,  in  time  —  O  God,  bring  me  to  her  in 
time!" 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE   UNEXPECTED   HAPPENS. 

THEY  reached  the  base  of  the  hill.  With  long,  even 
strides,  without  the  least  urging,  the  horses  began  to 
climb  the  steep  and  winding  road.  It  was  constructed 
up  the  rugged  face  of  the  jagged  and  irregular  granite 
cliff  where  in  many  places  the  masses  of  rock  had  been 
blasted  out  to  make  foothold  for  man  and  beast.  The 
way  was  painfully  crooked;  stunted  trees  growing  in 
the  clefts  interrupted  the  starlight;  this  part  of  the 
journey  was  obscure  and  gloomy. 

Ted  Vaun  discharged  a  copious  libation  of  tobacco- 
juice  over  the  wheel. 

"  How  do  you  feel,  Erny?  " 

"  All  right,  Ted;  but  I  can't  talk.  You  say  what 
you  want  to;  don't  mind  me." 


44  THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS 

"  O,  well,  my  old  chum,  I  guess  I  understand  you. 
I've  got  to  sing,  or  talk,  or  make  some  kind  of  noise  in 
this  pokery  place.  S'pose  you  think  once  in  a  while, 
Ern,  about  the  times  fourteen  years  ago  or  so  when  we 
sat  on  the  same  seat  in  the  old  school-house?  You 
was  a  bright  scholar,  but  I  never  could  learn  much  out 
of  books.  Once  you  got  a  licking  'cause  you  wouldn't 
tell  on  me.  By  gum,  Ernest,  you  was  always  plucky 
when  you  got  roused!  I  used  to  think  as  long  ago  as 
that,  that  you  had  a  kind  of  sneaking  fondness  for  June 
Gregory,  small  as  she  was." 

'  Ted,  don't!     Don't  mention  her." 

"  O!  aye,  I  see.  What  a lummocks  I  am,  to  be  sure, 
to  put  my  foot  in  it  that  way!  Well,  I'll  talk  about 
the  horses;  if  you  wa'n't  along  I  should  be  talking  to 
them.  Perfect  match,  you  see;  six  year  olds.  Wouldn't 
take  five  hundred  of  any  man's  money  for  em;  both 
just  as  good  as  they  make  hosses,  but  David  is  a  little, 
just  a  little,  better'n  Jonathan.  Queer  names?  Yes. 
Well,  I  heard  the  minister  one  Sunday  reading  out  of  the 
Book  about  those  two;  how  they  was  pleasant  in  their 
lives  and  in  their  death  they  was  not  divided,  and  I 
gave  the  names  to  the  colts.  You  can't  think  now 
those  creatures  love  each  other!  I  believe  if  they 
were  separated  for  a  week,  they'd  pine  to  death. " 

Teddy's  garrulous  tongue  ran  on  thus  till  the  top  of 
the  hard  hill  was  reached.  As  they  passed  the  summit 
Mulford's  eager  eyes  were  strained  ahead.  The  stars 
were  shining  brightly  now,  and  he  could  see  the  broad 
descent  sweeping  with  an  easy  grade  down  from  the 
top  of  the  ridge  over  miles  of  fertile  territory.  The 
highway  stretched  like  a  gray  ribbon  due  west  until  lost 
in  the  distance,  and  six  miles  off  lights  were  seen  as 
they  flashed  out,  disappeared  and  flashed  again. 

"  Bardwell ! "  cried  Mulford.     "  Now,  Ted. " 

"  Hie  up,  boys,  hie-e-e  there!" 

At  the  driver's  cheery,  long-drawn  cry  the  blacks 
broke  into  a  fast  trot,  which  in  two  minutes  had 


THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS  45 

increased  to  a  tremendous  pace.  Faster,  faster  they 
went,  the  wheels  spinning  and  the  iron  hoofs  ringing 
on  the  road,  while  Ernest  laughed  and  shouted  with 
the  long-pent  pressure  that  must  at  last  have  voice. 

And  then — the  unexpected! 

A  round  granite  bowlder,  started  by  some  heedless 
or  reckless  hand  that  day,  had  rolled  down  that  smooth 
descent  some  fifteen  hundred  yards,  stopping  at  last  in 
the  wagon-track. 

The  horses  were  right  upon  it;  they  saw  it  and 
swerved.  It  was  upon  Ernest's  side;  the  driver  never 
saw  it.  He  heard  the  quick,  warning  cry  of  his  com- 
panion, but  he  did  not  comprehend  it.  At  that  head- 
long speed  one  of  the  forewheels  struck  the  great  stone 
and  was  instantly  shattered.  The  fore  part  of  the 
wagon  tipped  down;  the  horses  began  to  kick  and 
bound  furiously;  with  both  hands  did  Ernest  cling  to 
the  seat;  how  it  was  that  he  escaped  death  or  frightful 
injury  from  those  plunging  hoofs  he  could  not  tell.  He 
saw,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  say  it,  the  horses  free 
themselves  from  the  gear  and  dash  forward.  Ted  Vaun, 
holding  like  a  vise  to  the  reins,  was  dragged  bodily 
from  the  seat  and  several  rods  along  the  road.  With 
one  leg  fractured  by  a  kick  from  one  of  those  frantic 
hoofs  the  plucky  fellow  never  released  his  grip  of  the 
lines,  nor  did  he  cease  to  cry  "Whoa,  Davey!  So, 
Johnny!"  in  his  efforts  to  calm  the  maddened  team. 
They  knew  his  voice,  and,  presently  obeying  it,  stood 
still,  though  dripping  with  sweat  and  quivering  in  every 
muscle. 

Ernest  clambered  out  of  the  wagon  and  knelt  down 
by  his  prostrate  friend. 

"  Dear  old  Teddy,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
badly  hurt?" 

Ted  struggled  hard  to  repress  his  groans;  but  the 
pain  was  too  much  for  him. 

"  No,  I'm  not  much  hurt,  Ern.  A  few  bruises,  more 
or  less — and  Jonathan  gave  me  a  bad  one  on  this  leg." 


46  THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS 

"  Can  you  get  up?     Let  me  help  you." 

He  put  his  arms  under  Teddy's,  and  raised  him. 
The  poor  fellow  gave  a  cry  of  pain,  and  sank  back. 

"No  use,  Ernest.  That  leg's  badly  fixed;  I  can't 
stand.  But  you  never  mind.  Get  on  one  of  the  horses, 
and  go  on.  Cut  off  the  traces,  strip  the  harness,  and 
make  a  kind  of  bridle  of  the  reins.  Stick  onto  him, 
and  give  him  his  head,  and  he'll  take  you  through. 
Don't  mind  me,  old  boy.  Somebody'll  come  along 
here  and  pick  me  up  soon;  and  it'll  be  no  harm  for 
me  to  lie  on  the  ground  awhile  this  warm  night." 

For  a  moment  —  for  one  unworthy  moment,  Ernest 
Mulford  was  tempted  to  comply. 

One  glance  he  cast  far  down  the  road  toward  Bard- 
well;  one  fierce  clamor  of  his  heart,  to  mount  and  ride 
away  there,  he  resisted  and  overcame;  and  then  he 
turned  back  to  his  helpless  friend. 

"  Teddy,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  think  so  meanly  of 
me  as  to  believe  that  I  would  leave  you  alone  here  in 
this  way!  I'm  going  for  help,  to  that  house  that  we 
passed  back  there.  Will  the  horses  stand  —  or  shall  I 
hitch  them  to  the  fence?" 

"  O,  they'll  stand;  I'll  talk  to  them.  So,  Davey!  — 
quiet,  John!  " 

Ernest  ran  swiftly  back,  and  furiously  assailed  the 
door  of  the  house.  No  one  appearing  promptly,  he 
bolted  in.  The  little  place  was  filled  by  a  laborer,  his 
son,  and  their  families;  and  the  men,  wearied  with  a 
hard  day  in  the  fields,  were  preparing  for  bed.  Mul- 
ford burst  in  on  them  like  a  hurricane. 

"Here!  —  come  with  me  —  I  want  you  both,"  he 
exclaimed  breathlessly.  "  There's  a  man  hurt,  out  here; 
I  want  you  to  bring  him  in,  and  take  care  of  him. 
Say  —  do  you  see  that  ?  " 

He  took  a  new  fifty  dollar  greenback  from  his  pocket- 
book  and  held  it  up  to  them. 

"  Why,  yes,  mister,  we  see  it,"  said  the  elder  of  the 
two,  "  and  a  right  good  sight  it  is  for  sore  eyes." 


THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS  47 

"  Take  it!  "  and  the  impatient  Mulford  threw  it  to 
him.  "  Keep  it;  it's  yours;  only  fly  round  lively,  and 
do  what  I  tell  you.  I'll  be  back  here  in  less  than  a 
week;  I'll  give  you  another  just  like  it.  Will  you  do 
as  I  tell  you?  —  and  make  haste?" 

"  Why,  bless  you,  yes;  father  and  I'll  do  anything 
for  you.  It's  rare  good  luck  you  bring  us." 

"  Listen,  then;  I've  got  to  hurry  away,  and  I  want 
you  to  do  just  as  I  say.  There's  two  horses  out  here; 
one  of  them  I'm  going  to  ride  toward  Bardwell;  the 
other  I  want  one  of  you  to  mount  and  ride  to  Drayton 
Station  as  though  the  devil  had  kicked  you;  find  Mr. 
Robbins,  the  station-master;  tell  him  that  Teddy  Vaun 
is  out  here  with  a  broken  leg;  and  then  go  to  Dr. 
Morton,  and  tell  him  to  come  here  at  once.  Do  you 
understand?  " 

"  O,   aye,    sir;    we   know   both   those   gentlemen. " 

"And  will  you  go?" 

"  I'll  go,  sir,"  the  son  spoke  up. 

"Well,  now,  take  that  door  off  its  hinges;  get  a 
mattress  and  put  on  it,  and  bring  them  out  here  to  the 
roadside.  You've  to  fetch  Teddy  Vaun  here,  and  put 
him  in  you  feather  bed,  and  make  him  as  easy  as  you 
can  till  the  doctor  comes.  The  women  here  will  do  all 
they  can;  I  know  they  will.  Hurry!  " 

He  stood  by,  fretting  and  fuming,  while  the  men 
deliberately  unhinged  the  door,  and  the  women  got  the 
mattress  to  lay  on  it.  He  walked  the  floor,  showering 
entreaties  and  imprecations  on  the  heads  of  the  men; 
and  they,  used  to  the  slow  ways  of  day  laborers,  let  him 
storm,  and  took  their  time.  At  last  they  were  ready; 
and  Ernest  hastened  out  before  them  to  where  Vaun 
lay  on  his  back.  He  was  talking  to  the  horses,  and  a 
whinny  occasionally  showed  that  he  was  understood. 

"  O,  is  that  you,  Erny  ?"  Vaun  said.  "  What  do  you 
think?  — just  now  Jonathan  came  round  here  and  put 
his  head  down  to  me,  same  as  to  say  he  was  sorry. 


48  THE    UNEXPECTED    HAPPENS 

Poor  fellow,  he  was  frightened;  he  never  meant  it.  But 
say  —  ain't  it  high  time  you  was  off?" 

"  Yes,  Ted.  These  folks  will  take  good  care  of  you. 
I'll  come  round  in  a  few  days  to  look  after  you.  Good- 
by,  Teddy. " 

"  Good-by,  Ern.  You'll  get  there.  O,  I  say  — 
take  David?" 

"Yes." 

Ernest  Mulford  took  the  laborer's  son  aside. 

"  Take  that  horse  to  your  shed,  so  you  will  have  him 
secure,"  he  said. 

The  man  started  with  him.  Mulford  removed  all 
the  harness  from  the  other  horse,  and  extemporized  a 
bridle  out  of  the  lines. 

He  found  himself  growing  weak.  He  had  to  lean 
against  the  horse  to  keep  himself  up. 

"  Help  me  to  his  back?"  he  said. 

The  laborer  did  so. 

"  Now  head  him  toward  Bardwell." 

It  was  done. 

"Stand  clear!" 

He  crouched  down  upon  the  bare  back  of  the  animal, 
turning  his  knees  closely  in,  and  held  a  loose  rein.  He 
had  not  the  strength  to  sit  upright.  With  a  strap  cut 
from  the  harness  he  gave  the  horse  a  cut  over  the  flank. 
The  spirited  creature  bounded,  snorted  and  bolted 
down  the  road  like  a  shot. 

The  laborer's  son  had  now  returned,  and  stood  with 
his  father,  watching  the  shower  of  sparks  struck  from 
the  stony  road  by  the  iron  hoofs  of  the  vanishing 
horse. 

"  A  dreadful  rattle-brained  chap,"  the  son  remarked, 
gaping  after  him. 

"  Very  free-like  of  his  cash,"  said  the  elder  of  the 
two,  fingering  the  substantial  reality  of  a  fifty-dollar 
note. 

Ted  Vaun   was  growing  delirious.      Their    voices 


THE   LAST    RALLY  49 

roused  him  and  summoned  back  his  lingering  con- 
sciousness. 

"  Where  is  he?  "  was  his  question. 

"  Vamoosed  with  one  of  the  horses." 

"  Which  one?  " 

"The  one  with  the  half-cropped  ear,"  replied  the 
laborer. 

"Aye,"  whispered  Vaun,  "that's  David;  he'll  take 
him  through." 

And  as  they  bore  his  poor,  bruised  body  to  the 
house,  they  heard  him  softly  murmur  the  last  words 
that  he  spoke  in  consciousness  for  days: 

"David  is  a  leetle — just  a  leetle — the  best  of  the 
two.  He'll  do  it,  if  either  of  'em  could!  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  LAST   RALLY. 

AWAY,  now,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind!  No 
further  need  to  use  the  strap :  a  word,  a  cry,  and  the 
great  black  horse,  with  the  sinews  and  wind  of  a  Cen- 
taur, increased  his  speed.  With  a  gallop  like  a  whirl- 
wind he  tore  along  the  highway,  neighing  and  snorting 
in  the  fierce  joy  that  the  rapid  motion  gave  him.  And, 
clinging  to  his  back,  weak,  almost  delirious,  and  still 
holding  on  with  the  clutch  of  desperation,  the  rider 
repeated  his  cry: 

"  Faster,  David— faster!" 

Several  wayfarers  were  passed  on  the  road.  They 
looked  with  terror  and  superstition  at  this  phantom 
horse  and  rider,  appearing  and  disappearing  in  a  whirl. 
Two  or  three  carriages  on  the  way  abandoned  the  road 
in  time  to  escape  being  ridden  down  and  demolished. 

Nearer  and  nearer  flashed  the  lights  of  Bardwell. 
He  was  almost  there. 

A  Sharp  Nighfs  Work  4 


5<D  THE    LAST    RALLY 

Yet,  as  he  rode,  in  the  clear  air  which  on  that 
night  conveyed  sounds  to  a  great  distance,  he  heard  a 
sound  that  struck  terror  to  his  soul. 

Far  away  to  the  north,  faint  but  shrill  he  heard 
the  shriek  of  a  whistle. 

Too  well  he  knew  what  it  meant !  The  night  express 
west  had  rounded  the  great  curve,  and  was  coming 
into  Bardwell. 

"  Faster,  Dave  —  faster ! " 

The  iron  hoofs  clattered  on  the  stony  road.  Nearer, 
very  near  to  the  village  he  came. 

But  steam  moves  faster  yet;  and  he  was  a  good 
half  mile  away  when  he  heard  the  rumble  of  the  train. 
Nor  had  he  reached  the  village  when  he  distinctly 
heard  the  clinging  of  the  engine-bell,  mingled  with  the 
first  heavy  puffs  as  the  train  drew  out. 

"  God  strengthen  me!  —  God  keep  her!  "  he  prayed. 

Bardwell  at  last.  Its  lights  were  right  before  him. 
Here,  at  the  end  of  the  long,  straggling,  elm-shaded 
street,  and  somewhat  beyond  it,  he  saw  a  well-known 
mansion  by  the  roadside,  but  well  back  from  it.  A 
large  two-story  frame  house  of  antique  architecture, 
surrounded  by  wide  lawns  and  gardens.  Along  its 
front  was  a  white-pillared  portico.  He  saw  the  house 
ablaze  with  light;  for  the  air  was  so  mild  that  the 
blinds  had  been  flung  open.  Not  only  light,  but  laugh- 
ter, music,  and  the  pleasant  hum  of  voices  came  forth. 
Many  figures  appeared  through  the  windows.  In  the 
grounds,  among  the  fountains  and  shrubbery,  couples 
were  strolling,  chatting,  and  flirting.  All  was  lightness 
and  gayety. 

So  much  he  saw  as  he  dashed  up  to  the  gate,  threw 
himself  off,  and  rushed  in. 

The  promenading  couples  then  saw  a  sight  that  sadly 
frightened  them. 

A  man  with  wild  eyes,  pale  face,  and  disordered 
hair,  rushed  up  the  walk  to  the  front  door.  His  coat 


THE    LAST   RALLY  51 

was  torn  half  way  up  the  back;  his  clothes  were 
dusty;  he  was  bare-headed.  Women  shrieked  and  ran 
from  him;  men  silently  fell  back. 

The  strange  apparition  burst  into  the  great  double 
parlor.  The  falling  of  a  bomb-shell  through  the  roof 
could  not  have  caused  greater  consternation.  A 
quadrille  just  formed  was  broken  up  and  scattered. 
Some  of  the  company  fled  from  the  room;  others  sought 
the  corners,  or  got  behind  the  furniture. 

He  leaned  upon  a  chair. 

"  Where  is  my  Uncle  Gregory?  —  and  my  aunt?"  he 
huskily  whispered. 

A  florid  old  gentleman  in  a  blue  swallow-tailed  coat, 
with  ruffles  at  breast  and  wrists,  came  cautiously  for- 
ward. 

"  Why,  its  Ernest!'*  he  exclaimed. 

"  Ernest!"  echoed  a  hale  old  lady,  advancing.  "  So 
it  is!  O,  deary  me,  what  is  going  to  happen?  O, 
Erny,  Erny,  how  could  you?  To  think  that  my  own 
sister's  son  would  act  so!  " 

The  tender-hearted  soul  began  to  cry.  But  her  hus- 
band frowned. 

"  Nephew,"  he  sternly  said,  "  your  conduct  is  out- 
rageous. What  do  you  mean  by  intruding  here  at  such 
a  time,  and  after  what  we  have  all  suffered  on  your 
account?  Why  did  you  not  return  a  month  ago,  beg 
forgiveness  of  your  excellent  employer,  and  of  your 
relatives  whom  you  have  shamed,  and  so  fit  yourself  to 
attend  here  to-night?  What  d'ye  mean,  sir,  by  coming 
in  this  condition?  Are  you  drunk  or  crazy?  —  or  what 
is  the  matter  with  you?  Speak!  " 

This  fine  burst  of  reproach  was  thrown  away  on  Mul- 
ford.  His  eyes  wandered  round  the  room,  and  through 
the  open  doors,  crowded  with  terrified  but  curious 
faces,  looking  for  one  whom  he  did  not  see. 

"  Uncle  Gregory,"  he  said,  "  Aunt  Jerusha — where's 
June?" 

"  O  Lordy!  "   the  plump  and  rosy  old  lady  cried. 


52  THE    LAST    RALLY 

"  I  know  something  is  going  to  happen!     Ernest,  you 
dear  boy,  what  makes  you  act  so?  " 

"  Where  is  June?  "  he  shouted. 

"  She's  gone  with  her  husband,"  replied  Mr.  Gregory. 
"  What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it?  " 

Ernest  clutched  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"  Gone! — husband?"  he  vacantly  repeated. 

"  Yes.  She  was  married  right  here,  at  precisely  half- 
past  eight,  to  Mr.  Weston  Mayhew,  and  they're  on  their1 
way  to  New  York  this  minute,  on  their  wedding  tour." 

"  Ernest,  please  go  up-stairstoyour  old  chamber  and 
lie  down,"  his  aunt  pleaded.  "Don't  —  please  don't 
make  a  scene  hereto-night  before  all  these  people." 

He  heard  her  words,  as  he  had  heard  those  of  his- 
uncle;  but  the  only  fact  that  he  distinctly  compre- 
hended was  that  the  blow  had  fallen;  that  he  had  come 
too  late ;  that  crafty  and  powerful  villainy  had  triumphed, 
and  that  June  was  lost  to  him  forever.  He  staggered 
in  front  of  the  great  chair  and  sank  down  in  it. 

"Lost!  —  ruined! — the  innocent  prey  of  a  black- 
hearted scoundrel!  "  he  moaned.  "  God  help  her  — 
and  me/' 

A  profound  silence  followed  his  words.  The  heart- 
rending pathos  of  his  tone  impressed  everybody.  The 
hush  of  direful  expectation  fell  upon  the  assemblage;  all 
knew  that  something  terrible  was  about  to  be  disclosed. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  "  Mr.  Gregory  thundered. 
"  It's  unmanly  for  you  to  come  here  in  this  way,  after 
Mr.  Mayhew  has  married  June  and  started  on  the 
wedding  journey,  and  try  to  blacken  his  character  by 
such  miserable  insinuations.  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  that  he  is  a  bigamist!"  Mulford  cried. 

The  silence  of  consternation  fell  upon  the  assemblage. 

"  He  is  the  most  infamous  of  men/1  the  young  man 
pursued.  "  I  never  did  a  wrongful  act;  he  has  blackened 
my  name  to  you  all.  He  has  stolen  and  suppressed  let- 
ters; he  has  forged  letters;  he  has  won  June  Gregory  by 
the  bas-^t  trickery  and  fraud  ;  he  has  had  for  months 


THE    EVIL   EYE  53 

another  wife  living  in  a  town  sixty  miles  from  here, 
and  but  this  very  afternoon  I  learned  the  shocking  truth. 
Through  such  dangers  and  trials  as  can  not  be  now 
recounted  I  have  striven  to  reach  here  in  time,  and 
snatch  poor  June  from  the  contamination  of  his  hand.  I 
have  failed;  I  am  baffled  for  the  time;  but  mark  me!  — 
that  rich  and  powerful  villain  shall  not  triumph  long. 
God  will  yet  keep  June  from  his  unclean  clutch.  I 
will  save  her,  though  I  die  at  her  feet!" 
He  sank  exhausted  in  the  chair. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  EVIL  EYE. 

BETWEEN  the  sunset  and  the  twilight  of  an  evening  in 
the  previous  July,  a  man  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  store 
on  the  principal  street  of  the  village  of  Bardwell.  He 
stood  in  a  comfortable,  half-lounging  attitude,  his  fing- 
ers playing  with  the  ornament  upon  his  heavy  gold 
watch-chain.  He  was  of  medium  height,  thick-set,  but 
still  active  and  quick  in  his  movements.  He  was  fash- 
ionably, almost  foppishly,  dressed  ;  and  a  single  glance 
would  have  shown  that  he  was  of  a  different  order  from 
the  general  run  of  country  village  people.  His  full 
brown  face  was  smooth-shaven;  a  comfortable  double 
chin  depended  from  it.  His  hair  was  thin  at  the  top, 
and  brushed  carefully  so  as  to  conceal  the  tendency  to 
baldness.  His  features  were  small,  and  seemed  almost 
lost  in  the  grossness  of  the  fat  face.  His  eyes  were 
black  and  restless,  roaming  quickly  from  one  object  to 
another;  and  when  they  happened  to  become  riveted 
upon  a  person,  they  were  as  keen  in  expression  as  those 
of  a  hawk.  His  age  was  something  between  forty  and 
fifty.  Over  his  head,  his  name  in  full  shone  upon  a 
large  sign  in  gilded  letters: 


54  THE    EVIL   EYE 

West  on  May  hew. 
General  Merchandise  at  Retail. 

By  the  side  of  the  large  doorway  was  a  smaller  tin 
sign: 

Post  Office. 

We  have  briefly  described  the  foremost  citizen  and 
wealthiest  man  of  this  village.  Few  there  were  in 
Bardwell  who  were  able  to  say  that  they  personally 
liked  the  man;  but  the  collective  opinion  of  the  people 
about  him  could  not  have  been  other  than  highly  favor- 
able, for  he  did  the  largest  and  most  thriving  busi- 
ness in  the  place.  Anything  that  the  people  needed 
could  be  bought  at  his  counters,  from  a  paper  of  pins 
to  a  cook-stove.  He  was  the  village  postmaster.  He  . 
was  a  deacon  of  the  leading  church,  superintendent  of 
its  Sabbath-school,  and  sang  in  its  choir.  Men  bowed 
low  to  him,  women  smiled  sweetly  upon  him;  he  was 
all  wrapped  up  in  the  praise  and  the  general  esteem  of 
this  people. 

Ten  years  before  this  time  he  had  come  here  from 
the  far  West,  unknown,  unintroduced,  and  had  at  once 
taken  a  firm  grasp  on  the  business  and  social  life  of 
the  place.  Nothing  was  known  of  him  by  the  Bard- 
well  people  more  than  what  he  had  shown  them;  they 
knew  absolutely  nothing  of  his  past  life.  Indeed,  there 
was  that  in  his  secret  life  here  that  would  have  shocked 
and  horrified  them,  could  they  have  known  it;  because 
the  man  was  in  fact  a  whited  sepulchre,  fair  outside, 
bnt  vile  and  evil  within.  The  cloak  of  religion  and 
extensive  and  honorable  dealing  that  he  had  assumed 
covered  a  thoroughly  bad  heart,  willing  and  ready  to 
prey  on  society,  and  ever  watching  for  a  safe  and 
tempting  opportunity. 

As  he  stood  there  in  his  store  door  on  this  evening, 
an  opportunity  was  presented  to  him. 

At  this  hour  June  Gregory  came  out  from  the  com- 


THE    EVIL    EYE  55 

fortable  home  of  her  foster  parents,  and  walked  down 
the  street.  She  was»just  nineteen,  rounded  and  grace- 
ful, with  sunny  hair,  bright  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks. 
She  walked  on  in  maiden  innocence  and  loveliness, 
presenting,  with  her  simple  summer  dress  and  ribbons 
and  light  hat,  a  picture  so  fair  that  even  those  who  had 
always  known  her  turned  when  they  had  met  her  and 
received  her  smile,  looked  back,  and  said  in  their 
minds,  "  How  beautiful.  " 

In  the  mild  and  flowery  June  of  a  year  nineteen 
years  gone,  a  little  infant  had  been  laid  in  a  basket 
upon  the  doorstep  of  the  Gregorys.  They  were  child- 
less ;  one  after  another  their  darlings  had  been  torn 
from  them  by  cruel  disease.  Their  hearts  warmed  to 
this  helpless  waif,  and  she  had  been  brought  up  as  their 
own.  Of  her  parentage  nothing  was  ever  discovered. 
Nor  did  these  kind  people  care  to  know  about  it.  She 
came  to  them  as  a  blessing,  and  daily  for  years  she 
had  grown  closer  to  their  loving  hearts.  A  card 
pinned  to  the  blanket  that  was  tucked  about  the  little 
body,  bore  the  words,  in  a  delicate  female  hand,  "  Her 
name  is  June."  So  she  was  called;  and  she  seemed 
to  have  borrowed,  with  the  name  of  the  month  of  her 
nativity,  something  of  its  brightness,  its  beauty  and  its 
bloom. 

She  walked  on  until  she  reached  Mr.  Mayhew's  store, 
and  turned  to  enter  it.  The  proprietor  bowed;  she 
smiled  and  nodded  in  return,  and  passed  in. 

What  was  it  that  then,  at  that  moment,  arrested  this 
man's  attention,  drove  for  the  time  everything  from  his 
mind  but  her  image,  and  filled  him  with  something  like 
a  frenzy  for  her  possession? 

Who  can  tell  the  ways  or  the  works  of  the  heart  of 
man  —  of  the  wolfish  heart  of  the  bad  man? 

An  hundred  times  before  had  he  met  this  girl, 
beginning  with  the  days  when,  as  a  school-girl  of  nine, 
he  saw  her  pass  along  the  street,  laughing  and  frolicking 
with  the  other  children.  He  had  observed,  as  he 


56         THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE 

observed  a  thousand  other  things  which  at  the  time  made 
no  sensible  impression  upon  him,  that  June  Gregory 
was  growing  to  womanhood,  and  was  developing  into 
a  wonderfully  lovely  girl.  He  had  given  her  just  that 
general  admiration  that  female  beauty  obtains  from  all 
men.  An  hour  before  he  probably  would  have  resented 
it  angrily  had  any  one  said  to  him,  "  You're  quite  fond 
of  pretty  June,  aint  you,  Mr.  Mayhew?  " 

But  as  she  passed  him  there  and  entered  his  store, 
a  sudden  inordinate  passion  for  her  sprang  into  existence 
in  his  breast.  Perhaps  it  had  been  secretly  gathering 
there  for  months,  and  perhaps  the  little  smile  she  gave 
him,  just  as  she  would  have  smiled  upon  any  male 
acquaintance,  inflamed  his  fancy  and  quickened  his 
desire.  We  do  but  record  the  fact,  without  seeking  to 
explain  it,  that  at  that  instant  a  passion  for  this  girl 
seized  upon  him  with  the  grip  of  a  lion. 

He  turned  and  looked  after  her,  as  she  went  to  the 
counter  behind  which  Ernest  Mulford  stood.  And  in 
his  bad  heart  he  registered  an  oath. 

"  I'll  have  her  — by  God,  I'll  have  her!  " 

He  knew  that  he  had  no  right  thus  to  look  upon  or 
to  think  of  her.  He  knew,  as  others  did  not  know,  the 
sacred  legal  barrier  that  stood  in  the  way  of  the  pos- 
session of  this  fair  prize,  even  if  he  could  win  her  heart. 
He  knew,  but  he  cared  not.  Duty,  honor,  conscience 
were  thrown  to  the  winds;  the  man  was  thenceforth 
given  over  to  the  devil! 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE. 

ERNEST  MULFORD'S  eyes  brightened  as  she  ap- 
proached. They  exchanged  the  usual  greetings  of 
young  people  who  are  well  acquainted;  and  then  June 
requested  to  be  shown  some  small  articles  in  the  line 
of  female  dressr 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE        57 

He  showed  her  the  goods;  she  looked  at  them,  they 
chatted  about  them,  and  the  best  part  of  half  an  hour 
was  consumed  in  the  purchase.  Two  or  three  people 
came  in  and  went  to  the  post-office,  which  was  kept  at 
the  back  end  of  the  store.  Ernest  looked  toward  the 
door,  and  seeing  that  Mr.  Mayhew  showed  no  signs  of 
coming  back  to  wait  on  them,  he  excused  himself  to 
June,  and  went  and  attended  to  them.  Returning,  he 
put  up  her  purchases  in  a  very  small  package,  received 
the  pay  for  them,  and  heard  his  customer's  "  good 
evening." 

"  Wait!"  he  said  in  a  low  tone,  leaning  forward. 
"Are  you  going  home  now?" 

"Yes." 

"  It's  about  time  to  close.  Mr.  Mayhew  is  here,  and 
the  evening  is  so  fine  that  I  don't  care  if  I  walk  along 
with  you.  May  I?" 

The  girl  gave  a  little  coquettish  toss  to  her  head. 

"  O,  I  don't  care,"  she  replied. 

Women  have  ever  been  a  mystery,  since  time  began, 
and  will  not  cease  to  be  till  the  end  of  time.  For 
months,  yes,  for  years  past,  that  kind  of  actions  which 
speak  louder  than  words,  had  assured  this  girl  that  this 
man  sincerely  loved  her.  That  he  had  never  told  her 
so  made  no  difference  with  the  certainty  that  she  felt  on 
the  subject.  And  she  was  not  indifferent  to  him.  If, 
on  the  one  hand,  she  had  never  in  her  hours  of  self- 
examination  brought  her  heart  to  confess  that  he  was 
its  master,  on  the  other  hand  she  did  know  that  she 
warmly  regarded  him;  that  she  liked  him  far  better 
than  any  other  man  of  her  acquaintance. 

Naturally,  this  state  of  mind  would  lead  her  to  a 
complete  surrender  of  her  heart  to  him.  Perhaps  she 
would  have  given  it  up  to  him  on  the  asking,  on  any 
evening  but  this. 

And  why  not  on  this  evening? 

Reader,  do  you  know  what  it  is  to  b&  perverse? 
Have  you  ever  felt  strangely  drawn  to  c*6  what  you 


58         THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE 

did  not  wish  to  do;  to  say  words  that  you  regretted  as 
soon  as  they  were  spoken? 

Such  moods  are  common  to  mankind;  they  are  far 
more  common  to  womankind.  Why  they  seize  us, 
why  it  is  that  we  permit  ourselves  to  yield  to  them,  are 
of  the  mysteries  that  fill  our  earthly  life. 

In  such  a  frame  of  mind  as  this  was  June  Gregory 
upon  that  night.  Something  told  her  that  Ernest  Mul- 
ford  was  about  to  declare  his  affection  for  her,  and  she 
capriciously  set  herself  against  him. 

He  took  his  hat  and  accompanied  her  to  the  door. 
Mr.  Mayhew  looked  at  them  as  they  passed.  Nothing 
of  his  feelings  showed  in  his  face. 

"  I  would  like  to  leave  a  few  minutes  before  time,  sir, 
to-night,"  Ernest  said.  "  If  you'll  lock  the  door,  I'll 
return  in  an  hour,  and  set  everything  to  rights  for 
morning. " 

The  merchant  nodded.  As  they  slowly  passed  up 
the  street,  side  by  side,  he  looked  after  them.  A  sus- 
picion of  the  truth  entered  his  mind.  With  it  came 
ungovernable  jealousy,  and  the  determination  that  if 
this  man,  his  faithful  clerk,  who  had  served  him  with 
rare  zeal  and  industry  for  some  years  —  that  if  he 
should  presume  to  come  between  him  and  this  girl,  he 
would  ruin  him  and  drive  him  from  the  village! 

The  couple  walked  on  together  for  some  minutes, 
making  only  casual  remarks,  allusions  to  the  little  news 
of  the  town,  such  topics  as  the  projected  Sabbath- 
school  picnic,  the  coming  party,  and  so  forth.  All  this 
was  quite  foreign  to  the  subject  that  lay  very  close  to 
Ernest's  heart,  and  more  than  once,  as  they  walked,  he 
tried  to  introduce  that  subject.  Divining  his  intention 
w»th  woman's  quickness,  June  always  checked  with 
rene  ,^ed  small-talk  his  efforts  to  speak  his  heart. 

But  I.  *  had  made  this  opportunity,  for  he  was  deter- 
mined to  i.ave  his  say  this  night.  When,  therefore, 
they  had  reached  the  gate  at  Mr.  Gregory's  lawn,  and 


THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE        59 

she  quickly  bade  him  good-night,  without  asking  him 
to  come  in,  his  hand  detained  hers. 

There  they  stood,  face  to  face,  with  the  gate  between 
them:  typical,  although  they  did  not  know  it,  of  the 
strong,  hard  barriers  that  fate  or  chance  —  who  can  tell 
which — was  building  up  between  them.  Nor  did 
they  know  that  over  that  same  gate  the  pair  who  were 
now  prosaic  old  man  and  wife  in  this  mansion  had  done 
their  wooing,  when,  years  before,  the  young  and  dash- 
ing Emmanuel  Gregory  had  come  to  tell  his  story  to 
the  only  daughter  of  the  house. 

"  One  would  really  think,  June,"  said  Ernest,  boldly 
taking  the  plunge,  "  that  you  cared  less  for  me  than 
for  anybody  else.  If  it  is  not  so,  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  all  this  coolness. " 

"Really!"  the  girl  said,  with  a  little  forced  laugh, 
"  who  told  you  that  I  cared  a  button  for  you?  Aren't 
you  presuming  a  good  deal  to-night,  Mr.  Imperti- 
nence?" 

"  It  is  high  time  I  knew  what  you  do  think  of  me. 
June,  let  me  ask  you  the  question  squarely:  Do  you 
love  me?" 

"  No." 

She  said  it  with  a  pout.  He  turned  his  face  sharply 
away,  to  hide  what  was  in  it. 

"  That  is — "  she  added.  There  was  a  full  stop. 
He  turned  again,  his  dashed-down  hopes  revived  by 
those  two  words. 

"  Well,  June?" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say?"  she  pettishly 
rejoined.  "  I  don't  see  what  right  you  have  to  talk 
so." 

"  You  have  answered  my  question,  June;  but  I  don't 
want  to  take  such  an  answer.  Do  you  really  mean 
it?" 

"  She  cast  down  her  eyes,  while  the  rich  color  man- 
tled her  cheek. 

"  Why,    Ernest,    to   be    frank   with   you,    I   hadn't 


6O         THE  COURSE  OF  TRUE  LOVE 

thought  of  such  a  thing.  We've  grown  up  together 
from  our  school  days,  and  I  never  looked  on  you  as 
anything  more  than  a  real  nice  friend.  Then  you're 
so  much  older  than  I  am." 

"  Less  than  seven  years." 

She  was  silent.  She  was  really  thinking  of  some- 
thing to  say  that  would  encourage  him,  while  it  should 
not  be  a  complete  yielding  on  her  part. 

"June,  this  is  a  very  anxious  hour  for  me."  He 
spoke  with  a  deep  seriousness,  and  she  glanced  shyly, 
but  with  secret  admiration  at  his  eloquent  eyes.  "Per- 
haps I  understand  you.  Because  I  have  been  so  much 
here  at  this  house,  where  my  good  aunt  and  uncle  have 
always  treated  me  as  affectionately  as  if  I  were  their 
own  son,  have  you  thought  that  I  cared  to  be  nothing 
more  to  you  than  a  kind  of  brother?  It  is  not  so.  I 
have  always  loved  you;  and  since  you  have  become  a 
woman  grown,  I  have  looked  with  fear  lest  some  one 
should  come  and  take  you  from  me.  Not  now,  June 
—  not  this  month  or  this  year  —  but,  some  day,  will 
you  be  my  wife?" 

She  had  broken  the  stem  of  a  rose  from  a  bush  close 
at  hand,  and  now  pulled  off  the  leaves  as  she  listened. 
She  laughed  again. 

"  That  '  some  day '  was  well  put  in,  Mr.  Mulford.  I'm 
afraid  it  would  be  a  pretty  long  day,  though  I'm 
young  enough  to  wait.  But  you  are  nothing  but  a  poor 
clerk " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  abashed  by  the  flush  of  pain, 
mortification  and  anger  that  her  unthinking  taunt  sent 
to  his  cheek. 

"  Say  no  more,  June,"  he  said,  with  unfeigned  bit- 
terness. "  I  have  made  a  mistake,  a  sore  one  for  me; 
but  it  is  better  for  me  to  learn  it  now.  I  shall  never 
speak  to  you  again  on  this  subject.  May  God  bless 
you!" 

He  threw  his  arms  about  her,  kissed  her,  and  hurried 
away. 


THE    COURSE    OF    TRUE    LOVE  6 1 

Almost  before  she  could  comprehend  what  had  hap- 
pened she  was  alone.  She  leaned  over  the  gate,  and 
looked  down  the  street.  He  was  hidden  by  the  gath- 
ing  shadows  of  the  night. 

Then  her  heart  spoke  out,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Ernest!    Ernest!     Comeback!" 

He  did  not  hear  her.  What  misery  might  have  been 
prevented,  what  stirring  scenes,  recorded  and  yet  to  be 
recorded,  would  never  have  occurred  had  that  gentle  and 
sorrowful  voice  penetrated  a  little  further  into  the  night. 

She  lingered  a  moment,  and  then  hastened  into  the 
house.  Mrs.  Gregory  met  her  in  the  hall. 

"  Why,  June!  "  she  said.  "  Whatever  is  the  matter 
with  the  child?  If  you  haven't  been  crying!" 

She  would  not  trust  herself  to  answer,  but  ran  up- 
stairs and  locked  herself  in  her  room. 

When  midnight  came,  and  that  house  and  all  the 
houses  in  Bardwell  were  still  in  slumber,  the  remorseful 
girl  was  still  sitting  by  her  little  table,  her  head  bowed 
upon  her  hands. 

Wroman's  love  had  been  fighting  a  hard  battle  with 
woman's  pride,  and  the  former  had  won. 

She  took  some  stationery  from  the  drawer  and  wrote 
a  letter.  We  must  look  over  her  shoulder  as  she  writes. 

July  1 3th. 

DEAR  ERNEST — I  am  dreadfully  afraid  and  ashamed 
to  write  those  two  words;  but  if  you  had  stayed  with 
me  only  a  minute  more,  you  would  have  made  me  say 
them  to  you.  What  made  you  rush  away  so?  You 
are  angry  with  me;  you  must  not  be  angry  with  poor, 
foolish  me.  Did  I  say  something  to  hurt  your  feelings? 
What  was  it?  I  forget  what  we  were  talking  about. 
You  may  come  over  to-night  (it  is  past  midnight  now, 
and  I  have  been  sitting  up  ever  since  you  were  here), 
but  you  must  not  kiss  me  again.  That  is,  unless  I  tell 
you  that  you  may.  JUNE. 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  the  letter,  closed,  directed 


62  THE    TRAIL    OF    THE    SERPENT 

and  stamped  it.  With  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  she  laid  it 
on  the  table. 

She  had  but  just  risen  to  prepare  for  bed,  when  a 
sudden  thought  made  her  heart  flutter. 

"  How  nice  it  would  be  for  him  to  get  it  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning!" 

She  acted  instantly  on  the  thought.  Putting  on  her 
hat  and  a  light  shawl,  she  silently  descended  the  stairs, 
let  herself  out  at  the  front  door,  and  ran  down  to  the 
gate. 

She  looked  along  the  street.  It  was  absolutely  still 
and  deserted. 

There  was  a  bright  moon  in  the  sky.  The  distance 
was  a  third  of  a  mile  to  the  post-office;  but  she  did  not 
hesitate. 

With  swift  feet  she  sped  along  the  way,  and  reaching 
the  place,  dropped  the  letter  into  the  slit  in  the  door. 
Then,  with  wildly  beating  heart,  but  with  a  deep  sense 
of  satisfaction,  she  sped  home.  Nobody  had  seen  her, 
nobody  knew  of  her  mission. 

Ah!  —  one  person  there  was  who  knew  of  it. 

She  did  not  look  behind  her  when  she  hastened  away 
from  the  post-office  door.  Had  she  done  so,  she  would 
have  seen  the  door  softly  unclose,  and  the  distorted 
face  of  Weston  Mayhew  thrust  out  in  the  moonlight. 
The  letter  she  had  just  posted  was  held  in  his  hand! 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT. 

AT  EIGHT  o'clock  Mr.  Mayhew  locked  the  store.  But 
instead  of  locking  it  as  usual  from  the  outside,  he 
locked  it  from  the  inside.  Going  back  to  his  desk,  he 
turned  up  the  gas,  and,  sitting  down  in  his  large  chair, 
he  became  immersed  in  thought.  His  home  was  at  a 
neighboring  hotel;  but  he  cared  not  to  go  there  now. 
He  wanted  to  think. 


THE   TRAIL   OF   THE    SERPENT  63 

To  think  —  about  June  Gregory.  The  sight  of  her 
beautiful  face  and  form  that  evening,  connected  with 
his  evil  resolution,  had  completely  absorbed  him.  He 
had  already  began  to  plan  for  the  accomplishment  of 
his  design.  Many  obstacles  he  saw  in  the  way,  but  he 
determined  to  overcome  them.  He  resolved  to  crush 
everything  that  might  come  between. 

Almost  an  hour  he  had  sat  there  in  deep  meditation, 
when  he  heard  a  key  rattling  in  the  lock.  He  knew 
that  it  could  be  none  other  than  his  clerk.  The  desire 
to  spy  upon  his  actions  swiftly  entered  his  brain.  It 
came  to  him  because  he  was  thinking  of  June,  and  he 
had  seen  his  clerk  accompanying  her  home  upon  terms 
of  apparent  intimacy. 

He  remembered  that  the  gas  in  the  office  —  part  of 
the  store  could  not  be  seen  from  the  street,  so  that  the 
person  who  was  about  to  enter  had  not  yet  seen  it,  and 
he  turned  it  out.  Then,  for  greater  precaution,  he 
crouched  low  behind  the  desk.  He  heard  the  door 
open  and  close. 

He  heard  the  uncertain  movements  made  by  hands 
and  feet  in  the  dark;  the  scratching  of  a  match;  the 
rush  of  released  gas,  and  then  there  was  a  light  in  the 
middle  of  the  store. 

By  peering  out  by  the  side  of  the  desk,  he  was  able 
easily  to  see  Mulford,  and  watch  his  movements. 

He  saw  him  go  behind  the  counters,  put  up  on  the 
shelves  some  rolls  of  goods  that  had  been  left  down, 
and  then  move  about,  putting  the  store  to  rights. 

As  he  passed  here  and  there  near  the  gaslight,  the 
concealed  watcher  saw  his  face,  and  observed  with  sur- 
prise that  it  was  sad  and  overcast. 

What  could  that  mean?  Little  more  than  an  hour 
before,  he  had  walked  away  with  June  in  excellent 
spirits.  What  had  happened  to  so  depress  him? 

Nor  was  this  all.  Once,  as  he  came  nearer,  the 
man  in  hiding  plainly  heard  a  deep  sigh. 

Never  suspecting  that  he  had  been  watched,  Ernest 


64        THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT 

left  the  store,  locking  the  door  after  him.      Mr.  Mayhew 
relit  the  gas  and  resumed  his  cogitations. 

Much  absorbed  he  must  have  been,  for  he  was 
aroused  by  the  clock  striking  one.  He  turned  down 
the  gas  again,  put  on  his  hat,  and  started  for  the 
street. 

He  was  just  about  to  insert  his  key  into  the  lock, 
when  he  heard  the  rattle  of  a  letter  in  the  tin  box  on 
the  door. 

No  man  can  account  for  his  sudden  impulses. 
Weston  Mayhew  could  not  have  told  what  caused  him 
to  take  out  the  letter  and  light  a  match  to  read  the 
address. 

He  read  the  name  of  his  clerk  on  the  envelope, 
written  in  a  woman's  hand.  He  quickly  and  softly  un- 
closed the  door  and  looked  out.  The  street  was  light 
and  he  easily  recognized  the  figure  that  was  rapidly 
flitting  away. 

He  reclosed  and  relocked  the  door,  returned  to  his 
office,  lit  the  gas  again,  and  placing  the  letter  on  the 
desk,  sat  down  and  looked  steadfastly  at  it. 

We  have  said  that  this  man  was  bad  at  heart.  He 
had  within  him  great  possibilities  of  vice  and  wicked- 
ness, hidden  under  a  garb  of  hypocrisy.  Yet,  thus 
far,  he  had  avoided  crime.  Not  that  he  was  not  bad 
enough;  the  very  worst  of  men  never  lay  themselves 
liable  to  the  heavy  hand  of  the  law.  It  was,  in  Weston 
Mayhen's  case,  only  because  he  had  never  yet  been 
sufficiently  tempted. 

The  temptation  lay  there  before  him. 

But  one  other  beside  himself  knew  of  the  mailing  of 
that  letter.  That  other  was  the  writer.  He  could  open, 
read  and  destroy  it;  he  could  learn  from  it  the  footing 
upon  which  his  clerk  stood  with  the  woman  whom 
he  had  resolved  to  possess,  and  nobody  would  be  the 
wiser. 

He  did  not  try  to  resist  the  temptation  ;  he  did  not 
care  to  resist  it.  There,  in  the  silence  and  secrecy  of 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT        65 

the  night,  he  violated  honor,  duty,  and  his  oath  of 
office,  and  for  the  first  time  became  a  criminal.  He 
tore  open  the  envelope  and  read  the  letter. 

He  read  the  tender,  touching  words,  fresh  from  the 
heart  of  the  writer,  yet  spiced  with  maiden  coquetry. 

A  fearful  curse  broke  from  his  lips.  He  tore  both 
sheet  and  envelope  into  minute  pieces,  and  threw  them 
into  his  waste-basket. 

He  got  up  and  strode  back  and  forth  through  the 
store.  The  black  frown  that  covered  his  face  gradually 
gave  room  to  an  expression  of  deep  thought.  Sud- 
denly he  clapped  his  hands  and  laughed  aloud.  If  evil 
spirits  can  make  themselves  heard  they  might  laugh 
that  way. 

"  I'll  do  it  !  "  he  said.  "  By  heaven,  I  believe  it  will 
work  !  " 

He  took  the  office  letter-book  from  the  desk  and 
turned,  one  after  another,  to  several  copies  of  his  clerk's 
letters. 

"  She  may  and  she  may  not  know  his  hand,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  It  is  best  to  be  safe." 

Mr.  Mayhew  was  an  expert  penman.  He  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  general  character  of  Ernest's  chirog- 
raphy,  and  could  at  once  make  a  fair  imitation  of  it ; 
but  he  labored  carefully  and  systematically  over  this, 
his  first  forgery.  He  finally  satisfied  himself  with  the 
following  production: 

JULY  14. 

MlSS  GREGORY:  I  have  received  your  letter,  and  I 
am  much  surprised  by  it.  If  you  think  that  you  can 
put  me  on  and  off  in  this  way,  according  to  your  whims 
and  caprices,  then  you  do  not  know  me.  I  have  very 
good  cause  of  offense,  and  I  am  tired  of  the  treatment 
you  give  me.  You  will  please  consider  everything  at 
an  end  between  us.  ERNEST  MULFORD. 

Mr.  Mayhew  held  this  precious  document  up  to  the 

A  Sharp  Night's  Work  $ 


66  THE    TRAIL    OF   THE    SERPENT 

light  and  laughed  and  chuckled  over  it,  reading  it  over 
and  over  again.  Then  he  thought  again.  ^ 

"  He  could  hardly  tell  it  from  his  own  writing,  he 
soliloquized. 

He  folded  it,  enveloped  and  carefully  directed  it, 
and  placed  it  in  his  drawer,  not  forgetting  to  turn  the 
key  on  it.  Then  he  went  to  his  lodgings. 

It  was  Ernest  Mulford's  habit  to  open  the  store 
promptly  at  seven  o'clock,  get  everything  ready  for 
the  day,  and  await  the  appearance  of  the  proprietor, 
who  usually  came  in  about  half-past  eight,  when  the 
clerk  went  to  his  breakfast. 

The  night  that  had  just  passed  into  a  new  day  had 
been  a  sleepless  and  sorrowful  one  for  poor  Ernest. 
He  was  up  before  six,  bathing  his  aching  head  and 
heavy  eyes.  Restless  in  mind  and  body,  he  left  his 
boarding-place  and  went  over  to  the  store.  For  the 
moment  he  forgot  his  grief  in  the  astonishment  of 
finding  the  store  open,  and  Mr.  Mayhew  inside.  The 
proprietor  met  him  near  the  door.  The  "  good- 
morning,  sir!"  with  which  the  clerk  greeted  him  was 
met  by  a  cold  and  severe  face. 

"  You  need  not  take  off  your  hat,  Mr.  Mulford. 
Your  engagement  here  is  at  an  end.  In  this  envelope 
you  will  find  the  amount  of  your  wages  for  the 
month  —  up  to  the  last  of  the  present  month  —  which  I 
think  is  a  very  large  concession  to  you,  after  what  has 
occurred.  I  wish  you  a  good-day." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked  away.  Almost 
stunned  with  this  new  distress,  Ernest  slowly  followed 
him. 

"  Mr.  Mayhew!" 

The  merchant  turned  sharply.  "  Well?"  he  snapped 
out. 

"  May  I  ask  how  I  have  displeased  you?" 

"You  are  a  good  one!"  was  the  sarcastic  answer; 
and  Mr.  Mayhew  elevated  his  dark  eyebrows.  "  As  if 
you  didn't  know! " 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT        67 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Take  care,  young  man!  You  may  anger  me  into 
making  this  a  public  affair. " 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir!  —  for  my  sake!  — tell  me  what 
you  mean.  You  know  I  have  served  you  for  years." 

"  I  do  know  it,  to  my  sorrow. " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  blast  my  good  name  here,  where 
I  am  best  known?" 

"  If  you  don't  make  too  much  fuss,  and  drive  me  to 
an  exposure,  I  shall  not  stand  in  the  way  of  your  leav- 
ing town  as  soon  as  you  please.  I  promise  nothing 
further." 

The  unhappy  young  man  put  both  hands  to  his  head. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  dishonest?  " 

"  I  haven't  said  it  yet;  but  since  you  ask  the  ques- 
tion, you  shall  have  a  plain  answer.  Yes!  —  I  do." 

Ernest  turned  and  left  the  store  without  another  word. 
It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock.  He  walked  along  the 
street,  meeting  nobody  at  that  early  hour  that  he  knew. 
He  looked  up,  and  saw  that  he  was  passing  Mr.  Greg- 
ory's place. 

The  old  grief  came  back  to  his  heart.  The  darling 
hope  that  he  had  cherished  for  years  had  been  rudely 
destroyed.  He  could  not  remain  here  now,  seeing  her 
every  day,  and  ere  long  seeing  some  other  win  and 
wear  her. 

The  crafty  devil  in  the  breast  of  Weston  Mayhew  had 
exactly  timed  the  cruel  stroke  that  had  just  been  dealt 
this  man.  None  knew  him  better  than  his  employer; 
he  was  a  judge  of  human  nature.  He  saw  that  Ernest 
was  suffering  deeply  from  slighted  love  and  wounded 
pride,  and  he  had  planned  still  further  to  crush  his 
spirit.  At  another  time  the  faithful  clerk,  conscious  of 
his  own  rectitude,  would  have  indignantly  hurled  back 
Mr.  Mayhew's  insinuations  and  boldly  dared  him  to  the 
proof.  In  the  state  of  mind  in  which  this  morning 
found  him,  his  employer's  words  were  terrible  to  him. 
He  knew  not  what  was  behind  them;  he  feared  that 


68         THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT 

some  plausible  case  had  been  made  against  him.  He 
could  not  conjecture  what  motive  Mr.  Mayhew  could 
have  for  trying  to  ruin  him.  In  fact,  he  was  indifferent 
as  to  the  motive. 

In  a  few  hours  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  his 
youth  and  his  young  manhood  had  become  insufferable 
to  him.  He  determined  to  abandon  it  forthwith.  In 
the  bitterness  of  his  spirit  he  resolved  that  he  would  not 
even  spend  a  few  hours  in  bidding  farewell  to  his 
friends  and  acquaintances;  not  even  to  his  good  aunt 
and  uncle.  He  would  not  even  return  to  take  the  cars 
at  Bardwell.  So  he  hastily,  rashly,  resolved,  as  he 
stood  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  looking  at  Mr.  Greg- 
ory's house. 

"  Farewell,  June!"  he  murmured.  "  Other  men  will 
love  you;  they  cannot  help  that;  but  not  as  I  have. 
We  shall  never  meet  again." 

He  dashed  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  walked  on. 
He  thought  of  some  little  debts  that  he  owed  at  Bard- 
well,  and  of  his  trunk  at  his  lodgings. 

"  I  will  go  off  to  some  obscure  place,"  he  thought, 
"  fix  these  things  by  correspondence,  and  make  up  my 
mind  what  quarter  of  the  world  I  want  to  strike  for. 
All  lands  ought  to  be  alike  to  me  now." 

Toward  evening  of  that  day  Mr.  Mayhew  heard  indi- 
rectly from  his  discharged  clerk.  He  saw  a  man  who 
told  him  that  he  saw  him  board  the  accommodation 
train  at  Drayton  that  morning. 

Mr.  Mayhew  turned  away  and  chuckled. 

People  wondered  at  the  absence  of  Ernest,  and 
inquired  of  the  merchant  where  he  had  gone.  And 
the  merchant  mysteriously  shook  his  head,  and  some- 
times said,  with  a  sigh: 

"  I  don't  wish  to  injure  him.  I'd  rather  say  nothing 
about  it.  Ah,  I  feel  sad  for  that  fallen  young  man!" 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day  after  Mulford's  dis- 
appearance, Mr.  Mayhew  took  the  forged  letter  from 
his  drawer,  stamped  it  with  the  Bardwell  post-mark, 


THE    DETECTIVE    APPEARS  69 

and  placed  it  in  Mr.  Gregory's  box.  June  herself  came 
to  the  postoffice  about  noon,  and  received  it  from  his 
hands.  When  she  had  gone,  Mr.  Mayhew,  being 
alone,  broke  out  into  boisterous  mirth  at  the  success  of 
his  scheme.  The  devil  in  him  was  roaring  loudly! 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    DETECTIVE   APPEARS. 

THE  month  of  July  went  past  at  Bardwell.  Early  in 
August  the  evening  train  from  the  West  brought, 
among  others,  a  stranger  to  the  place.  He  rode  over 
to  the  hotel  in  the  omnibus,  registered  the  name 
"  Elias  Lear,"  and  being  wearied  with  a  long,  warm 
and  dusty  day's  travel,  he  retired  early. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  he  was  seated  oppo- 
site Weston  Mayhew.  The  two  men  took  keen  notice 
of  each  other,  without  seeming  to  do  so.  As  the  meal 
progressed,  had  the  thoughts  of  each  been  put  into 
speech,  they  would  have  been  something  like  this: 

MR.  LEAR:  "Here's  something  interesting.  I  never 
saw  this  man  before,  but  I've  met  hundreds  of  his  kind. 
He  is  sharp  and  unscrupulous,  easily  imposes  upon 
people,  and  makes  them  think  he's  a  sight  better  than 
he  is.  He  is  out  of  place  here  in  this  small  town.  I 
should  naturally  look  for  him  in  some  big  operation 
at  the  West,  where  he  would  be  carefully  looking  out 
for  Number  One. " 

All  of  which  shows  that  the  detective  was  an  excel- 
lent physiognomist. 

MR.  MAYHEW:  "  Who's  this  stranger,  I  wonder? 
Don't  look  like  a  produce-buyer  or  a  land-speculator. 
I'd  give  half  a  dollar  to  know  his  business.  He's  a 
curious-looking  man;  he  don't  carry  any  marks  that  I 
should  know  him  by." 

After  breakfast  the  detective  took  a  chair   in    the 


70  THE   DETECTIVE   APPEARS 

hotel-office  and  smoked  a  cigar  at  leisure.  Mr.  May- 
hew  came  out  picking  his  teeth,  threw  a  glance  at  the 
stranger  and  went  to  his  store. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman?"  Mr.  Lear  asked  of  the 
landlord. 

"  That  is  Weston  Mayhew,  our  leading  merchant 
and  the  postmaster. " 

He  examined  the  name  of  his  guest  on  the  register, 
and  remarked: 

"  You're  a  stranger  here,  I  take  it?" 

"  Years  ago,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  was  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  but  I  never  was  in  this  village  before. " 

"  Buyer? "  the  landlord  queried,  with  the  off-hand 
curiosity  of  a  country  host.  "  Land  or  produce?" 

"  Neither." 

"  Hope  I  don't  offend?  " 

11  Oh,  no,"  said  Lear.  "  The  fact  is,  I  am  out  of  a 
job  just  now;  I've  retired  from  business,  and  become 
what  you  might  call  a  '  gentleman  of  elegant  leisure.' 
That's  the  best  account  I  can  give  of  myself." 

"  Oh!  "  said  the  landlord.  He  knew  not  what  to  say, 
for  this  was  something  out  of  his  experience. 

"  But  I  may  tell  you  why  I  stopped  at  Bardwell. " 

The  landlord  listened  eagerly. 

"  On  one  reason,"  added  Mr.  Lear,  observing  the 
other's  curiosity. 

"  My  whole  life  has  been  passed  at  the  West,"  he 
went  on,  speaking  slowly  and  thoughtfully;  "  that  is, 
the  active  part  of  it;  all  that  makes  life  in  this  great, 
stirring,  hustling  land  of  ours.  I  have  been  in  large 
affairs,  and  for  thirty  years  have  been  on  a  continual 
strain  of  mental  and  physical  activity.  I  felt  the  need 
of  rest,  and  I  concluded  to  take  a  long  vacation;  it 
may  become  a  permanent  one.  I  am  getting  on  in 
years,  landlord;  the  man  who  is  near  sixty  has  an  uncer- 
tain hold  on  life.  It  occurred  to  me  that  the  best  use 
I  could  make  of  my  spare  time  would  be  to  come  East, 
go  up  to  Northern  Vermont,  to  the  old  place  where  I 


THE    DETECTIVE   APPEARS  ?I 

was  born,  and  look  up  old  friends  and  acquaintances. 
I  am  afraid  I  shall  find  few  enough  of  them.  Thirty 
years  make  a  sad  waste  in  any  community.  Still,  I've 
got  some  of  the  old  home-feeling  left,  and  I'm  going 
back  there  for  a  while. " 

"  Where  were  you  born  and  raised,  sir?  " 

"  In  Dinsmore. " 

"  Dinsmore?  Seems  to  me  some  of  our  people  here 
came  from  up  that  way." 

"  Yes;  I  happened  to  think  of  that  as  the  train  was 
getting  in  here,  and  I  concluded  to  stop  over  and  see 
if  I  could  find  any  old  friends.  Can  you  mention  any 
one  that  came  from  Dinsmore?  " 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  landlord,  thoughtfully. 
"  There  were  the  two  Deans,  but  they  are  both  dead. 
Wagner  moved  somewhere  down  South.  I  don't  think 
of  any  one  else  but  the  Mulfords. " 

"  I  have  heard  that  Lewis  Mulford  was  dead." 

"  Yes,  and  his  widow  died  most  ten  years  ago." 

Schooled  as  he  was  never  to  betray  emotion,  Elias 
Lear  only  concealed  the  effect  that  this  announcement 
made  upon  him  by  hastily  going  to  the  door.  Had  he 
told  the  exact  truth  to  the  landlord,  he  would  have 
told  him  that  he  had  journeyed  a  thousand  miles  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  person  whose  death  had  just  been 
announced  to  him,  and  that  he  had  stopped  at  Bard- 
well  to  see  her,  and  nobody  else.  And  if  the  landlord 
could  have  seen  the  face  that  Mr.  Lear  turned  to  the 
street,  he  would  have  observed  that  a  mist  was  gather- 
ing in  those  cold  blue  eyes. 

"I  have  delayed  too  long,"  the  detective  sadly 
thought.  "  Well,  that  dream  is  over.  I  might  as  well 
turn  westward  again  to-morrow  and  resume  my  old 
life." 

When  he  came  back  and  sat  down  again,  there 
was  no  trace  of  his  feelings  in  his  face. 

"  You  were  speaking  of    Mrs.    Jane  Mulford,"  he 


72  THE    DETECTIVE    APPEARS 

said.  "  I  had  not  heard  of  her  death.  Tell  me  some- 
thing of  her  and  her  husband." 

"Well,  sir,  there's  little  to  tell.  A  finer  lady  nor 
a  better  woman  never  lived,  but  I  suppose  her  heart 
was  broken  by  that  gambling,  horse-racing,  hard- 
drinking  scamp  of  a  husband.  The  fellow  had  good 
looks,  and  that's  the  only  good  thing  that  he  did  have. 
He  broke  his  neck  on  one  of  his  sprees;  'twould  have 
been  a  good  thing  for  her  if  he'd  done  it  before  he 
ever  saw  her.  Mrs.  Mulford  was  poor  enough;  and 
Ernest  was  just  getting  so  as  to  help  her,  when  she 
died." 

"Who  is  Ernest?" 

"  Her  boy;  only  child;  looks  just  like  her;  same 
handsome  eyes  and  face." 

"  Is  he  in  town  now?" 

"  He  was  till  a  few  weeks  ago;  and  then,  one  morn- 
ing, he  turned  up  missing,  and  not  a  word  has  been 
heard  of  him.  Beats  the  Jews,  sir!  —  queerest  thing  I 
ever  heard  of.  There's  only  one  thing  makes  me  think 
there  isn't  foul  play  somewhere  about  it. " 

The  detective,  without  betraying  it,  was  profoundly 
interested  in  the  landlord's  words. 

"  What  is  that?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  his  employer  has  been  giving  out  that  Ernest 
has  been  stealing  from  the  safe  for  a  long  time,  and 
cleared  out  to  save  being  arrested." 

"  Who  was  his  employer?" 

"  Mr.  Mayhew,  the  gentleman  you  saw  at  breakfast. " 

"  Indeed!     Is  the  story  generally  believed?" 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  it  is.  It  wouldn't  be, 
about  such  an  excellent  young  man  as  Ernest  has 
always  been — just  like  his  mother,  sir!  —  if  anybody 
but  Mr.  Mayhew  had  told  it.  But  he's  the  first  man  in 
the  place;  his  word  goes  for  anything." 

"  You  say  that  nothing  has  been  heard  of  this  young 
man  since  he  disappeared?" 


THE   DETECTIVE   APPEARS  73 

"  Not  a  word.  His  trunk  is  at  his  boarding-place; 
not  a  letter  has  come  to  anybody  from  him. " 

"  Strange  enough.  Is  there  any  other  gossip  about 
this  affair?" 

"  A  great  deal,  sir.  The  women  folks  say  that 
Ernest  was  making  up  to  June  Gregory,  the  foster- 
daughter  of  his  uncle  and  aunt.  Mrs.  Gregory  and 
Mrs.  Mulford  were  sisters.  And  they  say  that  since 
he  went  away  Mr.  Mayhew  himself  has  been  paying  a 
good  deal  of  attention  to  pretty  June." 

"  I  think  I  will  walk  about  the  place  awhile,"  Mr. 
Lear  said. 

As  he  went  along  the  street  he  mused  upon  what  the 
landlord  had  told  him. 

"  If  there  isn't  villainy  somewhere  in  this,"  he  solilo- 
quized, "  then  the  detective  instinct  in  me  is  at  fault. 
How  naturally  all  these  elements  of  a  good  case  arrange 
themselves  in  the  mind!  Here  is  a  young  man  in  love 
with  a  pretty  girl;  his  employer,  almost  old  enough  to 
be  his  father,  falls  in  love  with  the  same  girl,  and  con- 
cocts a  rascally  plot  to  get  the  young  man  out  of  the 
way." 

The  words  "  detective  instinct  "  were  most  appropri- 
ately applied  by  this  man  to  himself.  With  the  bare 
outline  given  him  by  the  landlord,  he  had  swiftly  and 
unerringly  reached  the  exact  truth  of  the  matter. 

"  And  if  I  am  right  in  my  conjectures,"  he  thought, 
"  Jane  Mulford's  boy  is  being  made  the  victim  of  a 
scoundrel.  Because,  if  I  read  this  Weston  Mayhew's 
face  rightly,  he  is  capable  of  a  great  deal  of  crooked- 
ness." 

He  switched  the  weeds  by  the  wayside  with  his 
stick,  and  kept  on  thinking. 

"  Well,  I  believe  there  is  '  a  divinity  that  shapes  our 
ends.'  Here  I  am,  the  whole  object  of  my  founrey 
suddenly  brought  to  nothing;  poor  Jane  is  long  dead; 
any  hope  that  I  might  have  had  of  happiness  with  her, 
after  the  bitter  disappointment  of  years  past,  has  fled; 


74  THE    DETECTIVE   APPEARS 

and  a  few  moments  since  I  was  saying  to  myself  that  I 
would  go  back  to  the  West  at  once,  and  resume  the 
excitements  and  risks  of  my  detective  life.  Then  it  is 
told  to  me  that  Jane's  only  child  is  under  a  cloud;  that 
he  has  mysteriously  disappeared;  that  insinuations  of 
criminal  conduct  are  flying  about  this  community, 
where  he  has  grown  up  from  childhood  with  honor  and 
respect;  and  the  chatter  of  that  inn-keeper  leads  me 
to  suspect  that  Mr.  Weston  Mayhew's  bad  hand  is  in 
this  business.  Well,  Elias  Lear  —  what  will  you  do 
about  it?  " 

Thus  he  mused,  as  he  walked  along. 

"  I  am  nothing  but  a  detective/'  he  thought,  with  a 
smile.  "  Nature  must  have  made  me  one,  for  I  find  it 
impossible  to  be  anything  else.  Even  on  a  vacation  I 
am  laying  out  work." 

All  this,  unuttered,  passed  through  his  mind.  Then 
came  a  thought  that  determined  him. 

"  The  landlord  said  that  he  looked  like  his  mother. 
Poor,  dear  Jane!  " 

No  one  could  have  thought,  in  seeing  this  man,  with 
his  hard,  dry  aspect,  and  curt  speech,  that  there  had 
been  romance  in  his  life,  and  that  there  was  now  a  soft 
spot  in  his  heart.  He  took  from  the  pocket  within  his 
vest  a  small  miniature,  opened  the  case,  and  gazed  as 
he  walked  at  the  lovely  face  there  portrayed. 

"  If  she  were  alive,"  he  mused,  as  he  returned  this 
memento  of  an  unforgotten  love  to  its  place  next  his 
heart,  "  how  eagerly,  at  her  request,  would  I  spring  to 
the  vindication  of  her  son,  and  the  clearing  away  of 
the  web  of  villainy  that  I  think  has  been  woven  around 
him.  Does  she  not  see  him  and  me  now?  Is  she  not 
at  this  moment  appealing  to  me  to  save  her  boy  and 
punish  his  false  accuser?  " 

He  paused  in  his  walk.  The  name  of  Weston  May- 
hew  in  large  gilt  letters  over  a  door  across  the  way  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  slowly  crossed  the  street. 


THE    SILENT    WITNESS  75 

Without  any  definite  plan  of  operations  in  his  mind 
he  entered  the  store. 

The  resources  of  such  men  are  simply  wonderful. 
He  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Mayhew  and  talk  with  him, 
hoping  to  get  a  clew  that  would  aid  him  in  unmasking 
the  wrong  that  he  was  sure  the  merchant  had  com- 
mitted. Yet  he  entered  the  store  without  any  particu- 
lar procedure  outlined  in  his  mind,  trusting  to  the  in- 
spiration of  the  moment  when  he  should  be  face  to 
face  with  his  man. 

The  door  was  open.  He  entered  and  noiselessly 
walked  to  the  back  part  of  the  store.  At  first  he 
thought  that  nobody  else  was  there;  but  presently  he 
saw  Mr.  Mayhew  in  his  private  office.  His  back  was 
toward  the  detective;  he  was  so  profoundly  interested 
in  reading  a  letter  that  he  did  not  hear  the  approach  of 
the  latter.  He  read  the  letter,  and  with  his  back  still 
turned,  tore  letter  and  envelope  to  pieces  and  threw 
them  into  the  waste  basket. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  SILENT  WITNESS. 

THE  detective,  thus  far  unseen  and  unheard,  stood 
directly  behind  Mr.  Mayhew.  He  placed  his  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  merchant. 

The  latter  started  and  whirled  about.  He  trembled 
all  over  and  there  was  a  scared  look  in  his  face. 

"  Why,  why,"  he  stammered,  "  wh — wh — what  d'ye 
want?  "' 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mayhew/'  said  the  detect- 
ive, with  a  smooth,  bland  voice  well  calculated  to  allay 
suspicion.  "  I  wish  to  talk  with  you  a  few  moments 
on  a  matter  of  business.  Are  you  at  leisure?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  alarmed  merchant,  recovering  him- 
self. "  You  came  in  so  sudden  that  you  startled  me. 
Pray  be  seated." 


THE    SILENT   WITNESS  77 

Hardly  had  Mr.  Lear  taken  a  chair  when  a  lady 
entered  the  store  and  went  to  the  postoffice  window. 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Mayhew.  "  I 
was  compelled  to  discharge  my  clerk  awhile  ago,  and  I 
have  not  succeeded  in  getting  another  to  suit  me.  I 
will  be  back  as  soon  as  I  wait  on  that  lady." 

The  lady  was  June  Gregory.  She  looked  in  her 
father's  box,  and  saw  that  there  was  a1  letter  there. 
Her  heart  beat  faster;  she  hoped  that  it  was  for  her, 
and  from  the  person  who  was  constantly  in  her 
thoughts. 

The  postoffice  inclosure  joined  Mr.  Mayhew's  private 
office.  The  places  were  entirely  distinct;  you  could 
not  see  from  one  into  the  other;  and  Mr.  Lear,  sitting 
in  the  private  office,  was  out  of  sight  of  the  postmaster 
behind  the  postoffice  delivery-window.  But  the  two 
places  were  so  near  together,  that  ordinary  conversa- 
tion carried  on  in  one  could  be  distinctly  heard  in  the 
other. 

The  education  of  a  professional  detective  teaches 
him  to  employ  all  his  senses  at  once.  Elias  Lear  had 
this  faculty  in  a  remarkable  degree.  He  heard  every 
word  that  passed  between  June  and  Mr.  Mayhew;  and 
his  eyes  made  a  remarkable  discovery,  his  hands  secured 
very  valuable  evidence. 

"  There  is  nothing  for  you,  Miss  Gregory,"  said 
Mayhew.  "  This  letter  is  for  your  father." 

He  handed  out  the  letter.  And  then,  in  a  lower 
voice,  but  perfectly  audible  to  Lear,  he  said. 

"  Will  you  be  at  home  to-morrow  night?  " 

"Yes;" 

"  I  shall  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling. " 

She  made  no  reply.  He  came  out  from  the  post- 
office,  and  accompanied  her  to  the  store-door. 

"  You  looked  and  acted  like  a  guilty  man,  Mr. 
Weston  Mayhew,"  the  detective  thought,  "when  I 
surprised  you,  destroying  that  letter  and  envelope.  If 


78  THE    SILENT   WITNESS 

you  do  not  furnish  evidence  against  yourself,  you  will 
be  different  from  most  criminals  in  my  experience." 

His  eyes  sought  the  waste-basket.  The  fragments 
of  the  torn-up  letter  and  envelope  lay  at  the  top  of  the 
waste-paper  in  it.  From  where  he  sat  he  saw  that  one 
small  piece  bore  the  letters,  written  in  a  large,  round 
hand,  "  ulford. " 

The  discovery  was  an  inspiration  to  the  detective. 
He  turned  one  swift  glance  out  into  the  store,  to  see 
that  he  was  not  observed.  He  was  not;  Mr.  Mayhew 
had  turned  his  back  that  way,  as  he  walked  to  the 
door  with  June  Gregory.  Mr.  Lear  quickly  gathered 
up  the  torn  pieces  of  the  letter  and  envelope,  and 
thrust  them  into  his  pocket;  when  the  merchant  returned 
he  was  apparently  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  a  news- 
paper. 

Mr.  Mayhew  came  back  to  his  office  in  good  humor. 
He  had  just  arranged  with  June  to  call  on  her  the  next 
evening;  he  had  told  her  of  his  intention  and  she  had 
not  forbidden  him  to  come.  He  had  done  all  the  talk- 
ing: she  was  silent  and  sad;  but  he  had  told  her  that 
he  wanted  to  see  her  at  home  the  following  evening, 
and  by  her  silence  she  had  given  consent.  He  knew 
that  her  foster-parents  looked  favorably  on  his  suit;  he 
smiled  now,  to  think  of  the  progress  he  was  making. 

"  At  this  rate,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  shall  marry 
her  in  a  month.  And  then  farewell  forever  to  Bard- 
well." 

He  returned  to  his  office.  "  Well,  sir?"  he  said  to 
the  detective. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  troubling  you  on  what  you 
may  think  a  trivial  affair, "  said  Mr.  Lear,  smoothly. 
"  It  is  to  me  a  matter  of  much  consequence.  I  was 
passing  your  store,  and  I  chanced  to  look  up  and  see 
the  name  of  Mayhew.  When  a  young  man  I  was  in 
the  Mexican  war;  I  had  a  dear  comrade  of  that  name, 
who  fell  at  Buena  Vista.  We  were  in  Clay's  Kentucky 
Riflemen.  He  often  told  me  of  a  younger  brother 


THE    SILENT   WITNESS  79 

whom  he  left  at  home.  Never  do  I  see  the  name  of 
Mayhew  without  inquiring  for  a  relationship  with  my 
dear  old  friend  and  comrade.  Was  he  of  kin  to  you?" 

"  No,  sir;  surely  not.  I  had  no  brother  and  no  rela- 
tive in  the  Mexican  war,  that  I  know  of. " 

"  Ah!  Pardon  me,  sir,  for  intruding." 

"  Don't  mention  it.  Call  again  if  you  remain  in 
rown." 

"Thank  you;  I  may  remain  here  some  weeks  and 
may  drop  in  on  you  when  you  are  at  leisure." 

"  Good-morning,  sir. " 

"  Good-morning." 

Mr.  Weston  Mayhew  courteously  bowed  the  gentle- 
man out.  Then  he  walked  complacently  the  length 
of  his  store  half  a  dozen  times.  The  faint  chill,  the 
half  suspicion  that  the  guilty  are  apt  to  feel  upon  the 
visit  of  a  stranger,  and  which  the  merchant  had  distinctly 
felt  upon  the  appearance  of  Elias  Lear,  entirely  van- 
ished. He  seemed  to  be  a  very  harmless  personage. 

"  I  really  hope  that  the  soul  of  that  unfortunate 
Mayhew  may  rest  in  peace,"  chuckled  the  merchant  to 
himself,  with  a  heavy  attempt  at  a  witticism. 

Mr.  Lear  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  calling  at  a  book- 
store on  the  way  for  a  bottle  of  mucilage  and  some 
sheets  of  stiff  Bristol  board.  He  went  up  to  his  room 
with  these,  and  locked  the  door.  He  took  off  his  coat, 
emptied  the  pocket  of  the  fragments  of  paper  and  sat 
down  to  the  table. 

The  task  of  restoring  a  destroyed  letter  was  a  fam- 
iliar one  to  him.  He  knew  that  it  only  required  time 
and  patience. 

In  this  case  much  time  and  much  patience  were  re- 
quired. There  were  at  least  fifty  irregular  pieces,  some 
as  small  as  a  ten-cent  piece,  and  some  torn  with  the 
writing,  so  that  the  task  of  joining  them  was  very  diffi- 
cult. As  he  progressed  he  discovered  that  at  least  three 
pieces  were  missing.  The  places  of  these  he  supplied 
with  words,  which  he  wrote  in  according  to  his  idea  of 


8o  THE    SILENT    WITNESS 

what  the  original  was,  gathered  from  the  restored  parts. 
When  the  whole  was  joined  together,  as  children  join 
a  puzzle-map,  he  read  it  over  with  mingled  feelings  of 
satisfaction  and  indignation. 

The  envelope  was  postmarked  at  Granby,  three  days 
before,  and  addressed  to  "  Miss  June  Gregory,  Bard- 
well.  " 

The  letter  read  as  follows: 

GRANBY,  August  7,  1877. 

DEAR  JUNE  —  I  almost  despair  of  hearing  from  you. 
Twice  before  have  I  written  to  you  from  here,  and  have 
received  no  reply. 

Let  me  repeat  what  I  said  to  you  in  those  letters. 
Let  me  say  it  again.  Let  me  pray  that  you  will  not 
be  so  cruel  as  to  keep  silence  longer. 

Dear  June,  I  confess  my  fault.  I  see  now  that  I  was 
too  headlong  and  rash  with  you.  I  see  now  that  you 
were  right.  You  did  not  choose  to  be  wooed  in  so 
abrupt  a  way,  and  you  resented  it.  I  do  not  blame 
you. 

But  tell  me  to  come  back!  Give  me  just  a  little  hope 
—  if  only  a  little  —  that  you  will  some  day  love  me, 

I  left  Bardwell  suddenly,  after  a  kind  of  quarrel  with 
Mr.  Mayhew.  I  know  not  what  he  has  said  about  me 
since.  But  I  have  done  nothing  wrong;  I  assure  you 
that  I  have  not.  Do  not  you,  June,  believe  an  ill  word 
of  me. 

Most  faithfully  yours, 

ERNEST  MULFORD. 

The  detective  locked  up  the  restored  letter  in  his 
satchel. 

"  You  are  just  like  the  common  run  of  criminals,  Mr. 
Mayhew, "  he  said  to  himself.  "You  will  furnish  me 
all  the  evidence  against  you  that  I  need.  All  you  need 
is  close  and  skillful  watching.  And  that  waste-basket 
of  yours  is  a  treasure-house  of  information.  I  must 
manage  to  get  hold  of  it. " 


THE    DETECTIVE   AT   WORK  8 1 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  DETECTIVE  AT  WORK. 

THE  skillful  manipulations  by  which  the  detective 
obtained  possession  of  the  merchant's  waste-paper  bas- 
ket late  one  night  and  returned  it  early  in  the  morning, 
need  not  be  particularly  set  forth.  The  coveted  prize 
was  obtained  by  bribing  the  man  who  was  entrusted 
with  a  key  over  night,  in  order  to  sweep  out  the  store 
and  set  it  to  rights.  If  the  means  that  Mr.  Lear  found 
necessary  to  employ  in  order  to  obtain  full  and  suffi- 
cient evidence  of  the  merchant's  crime  were  not  such 
as  all  people  would  commend,  it  is,  nevertheless,  true 
that  they  were  such  as  he  was  accustomed  to  employ, 
and  by  aid  of  which  he  had  been  remarkably  success- 
ful. And  he  felt  perfectly  justified  in  his  course,  it  being 
with  him  a  favorite  saying,  "  When  you  fight  the  Devil, 
you  must  use  his  own  weapons." 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  this  task  was  easily 
or  quickly  accomplished.  The  detective  had  to  move 
slowly  and  cautiously,  and  he  did  not  dare  take  any 
risk  by  which  Mr.  Mayhew's  suspicions  might  be 
aroused.  In  roundabout  ways  he  discovered  who  it 
was  that  took  care  of  the  store;  at  what  hours  of  the 
night  he  was  engaged  in  his  task;  next,  that  this  man 
secretly  disliked  Mr.  Mayhew  for  what  he  called  his 
"  blamed  stinginess  to  me."  The  man  was  poor;  and 
while  he  would  not  permit  the  store  to  be  robbed 
through  his  connivance,  he  saw  no  harm  in  letting  "  the 
gentleman  at  the  tavern  "  take  the  useless  waste-paper 
for  a  few  hours,  especially  since  he  paid  him  fifty  dol- 
lars for  his  agency  in  the  matter.  Nor  did  it  trouble 
Jim  Blynn's  conscience  that  he  was  required  to  make  a 
solemn  promise  never  to  divulge  this  transaction. 

The  basket  was  stealthily  delivered  to  Mr.  Lear  at 
the  back  door  of  the  store,  concealed  in  a  large  sack; 

A  Sharp  Nighfs  Work  6 


82  THE   DETECTIVE   AT   WORK 

by  him  it  was  conveyed  to  his  room  at  the  hotel,  where, 
with  locked  door,  the  detective  was  employed  for  four 
hours  in  scrutinizing  every  piece  of  paper  in  the  whole 
bushel.  Each  morsel  that  bore  writing  like  that  upon 
Ernest  Mulford's  restored  letter,  already  in  his  posses- 
sion, was  carefully  laid  aside,  and  also  numerous  pieces 
which  bore  a  delicate  female  hand.  This  task  per- 
formed, and  the  multitude  of  precious  fragments  locked 
in  a  drawer,  the  basket  and  its  remaining  worthless 
contents  were  cautiously  returned  to  Blynn. 

But  something  further  was  necessary,  Mr.  Lear 
thought,  to  prevent  any  suspicion  from  lingering  in  the 
merchant's  mind.  Supposing  that  it  should  happen  to 
occur  to  Mayhew  that  the  waste-basket  was  an  unsafe 
place  for  the  numerous  letters  that  he  had  stolen  and 
destroyed,  even  in  their  fragmentary  condition — sup- 
posing that  he  should  make  a  search  and  fail  to  find  a 
single  piece,  would  he  not  be  alarmed,  and  perhaps 
evade  justice  by  flight?  Thinking  of  this  possibility, 
Jim  Blynn  was  directed  by  the  detective  to  empty  out 
the  contents  of  the  basket  and  burn  them. 

The  empty  basket  quickly  attracted  Mayhew's  atten- 
tion that  morning.  He  called  Blynn,  and  inquired 
what  he  knew  about  it. 

"  I  threw  out  the  old  paper  and  burnt  it,  sir,"  was 
the  answer.  "  The  basket  was  gettin'  full." 

"  Who  told  you  to  do  that?  " 

11  Nobody,  sir." 

"  After  this,  you  wait  for  orders  before  destroying 
anything  about  here.  Are  you  sure  you  burned  all 
the  waste  paper  there?  " 

"  Every  bit  of  it,  sir,"  lied  Jim,  promptly. 

"  Show  me  where  you  burned  it. " 

The  merchant  followed  his  man  out  in  rear  of  the 
store,  and  saw  a  black  spot  on  the  ground,  with  a  little 
heap  of  gray  ashes  and  embers. 

He  was  perfectly  satisfied ! 


THE    DETECTIVE    AT    WORK  83 

"  I  ought  to  have  burned  those  scraps  myself, "  he 
muttered.  "  No  matter;  it  is  all  right  now." 

So  much  time  had  the  detective  found  it  necessary 
to  occupy  with  the  business  of  securing  the  torn-up 
letters  and  envelopes,  that  it  was  now  the  third  of  Sep- 
tember. As  everybody  in  a  place  like  Bardwell 
inquires  about  everybody  else's  affairs,  the  continued 
stay  of  Mr.  Lear  at  the  hotel  naturally  occasioned  some 
comment.  He  found  it  convenient  and  safe  to  continue 
to  bear  the  character  which  he  had  appeared  in  to  the 
landlord:  a  gentleman  of  leisure  from  the  West,  pass- 
ing a  vacation  at  ease,  and  remaining  at  Bardwell 
because  he  found  it  a  pleasant  place.  H'e  made  some 
acquaintances,  and  by  strolling  and  idling  about  per- 
fectly sustained  that  character.  He  overcame  his 
repugnance  to  Weston  Mayhew  sufficiently  to  have  an 
occasional  talk  with  him  about  indifferent  things,  and 
surprised  the  merchant  by  exhibiting  much  ignorance 
about  business  in  general. 

"  The  fellow  is  a  greenhorn,"  said  Mayhew  to  him- 
self. "  He  don't  look  like  it,  but  his  talk  plainly  shows 
it." 

Almost  another  week  was  occupied  by  the  detective 
in  the  secrecy  of  his  room  in  sorting  out  the  torn  frag- 
ments, and  putting  them  properly  together.  It  was 
emphatically  a  work  of  skill  and  patience;  but  he 
finally  had  the  satisfaction  of  reading  in  their  restored 
condition  all  the  letters  that  Ernest  had  written  to 
June  and  others  from  Granby,  as  well  as  the  one  letter 
mailed  by  her  to  him.  Here  was  overwhelming  proof 
upon  which  Weston  Mayhew  could  be  convicted  in  a 
District  Court  of  robbing  the  mails,  and  sent  to  the 
penitentiary.  The  sole  piece  of  this  kind  of  his  rascal- 
ity that  was  not  known  at  this  time,  and  which  did  not 
transpire  till  after  some  stirring  events  yet  to  be 
recounted  had  happened,  was  the  forgery  that  he  had 
mailed  to  June  in  the  name  of  Ernest  Mulford,  unsus- 
pected by  her. 


84  SHADOWED    BY    NIGHT 

With  the  evidence  now  in  his  possession,  Mr.  Lear 
sat  down  and  seriously  thought  of  what  his  next  step 
should  be. 

Should  he  make  a  complaint,  and  have  Mayhew 
promptly  arrested? 

Not  yet.  Ernest  Mulford  was  a  necessary  witness  ; 
he  must  first  go  to  Granby  and  secure  him. 

Should  he  not  go  at  once? 

He  thought  he  should  not  be  ready  for  some  days 
yet.  Ernest's  last  letter  from  the  waste-basket  was 
only  a  little  more  than  a  week  old  ;  he  did  not  think 
there  was  immediate  danger  of  his  leaving  there. 

The  detective  in  his  casual  talks  with  the  landlord 
and  others  had  secured  the  gossip  of  the  village  as  to 
the  merchant's  wooing.  It  was  reported  that  he  visited 
at  Mr.  Gregory's  as  often  as  two  evenings  in  the  week. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  courting  June. 

But  there  was  something  in  Mr.  Mayhew's  conduct 
that  Lear  had  not  yet  fathomed,  and  something  that 
puzzled  him.  He  observed  that  on  at  least  three  dif- 
ferent nights  the  merchant  was  absent  from  the  hotel, 
returning  before  breakfast.  What  did  this  mean?  He 
must  find  out. 

He  did  find  out;  and  a  pretty  discovery  it  was! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SHADOWED   BY  NIGHT. 

ELEVEN  O'CLOCK  at  night  of  September  I4th.  The 
detective  was  on  the  watch,  as  he  had  been  for  the  last 
three  nights.  Upon  each  of  those  nights  he  knew 
that  Weston  Mayhew  had  retired  to  his  room  in  the 
hotel  about  ten  o'clock. 

But  on  this  night  the  merchant  went  back  to  the 
store  after  supper.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  still 
there.  The  detective,  lingering  among  the  shadows 


SHADOWED    BY    NIGHT  85 

of  the  great  trees  opposite,  remained  out  of  sight  him- 
self, but  kept  a  close  watch  upon  the  store-door. 

"  If  he  stays  in  there  all  night,"  he  reflected,  "  this 
kind  of  thing  will  never  do.  I  shall  never  find  out 
what  deviltry  he  is  up  to." 

The  store-door  at  this  instant  was  cautiously  opened, 
and  Mr.  Mayhew  appeared.  He  locked  the  door, 
looked  carefully  up  and  down  the  street,  saw  no  one, 
and  then  swiftly  walked  down  a  cross-street  near  by. 

He  went  some  distance  on  this  street,  and  turned 
down  another.  He  met  but  two  or  three  persons,  and 
was  always  careful  to  cross  to  the  opposite  side  before 
the  one  approaching  was  near  enough  to  recognize 
him.  Skulking  along  in  this  way,  in  about  twenty 
minutes  he  had  reached  a  cosy-looking  cottage  at  the 
southern  outskirts  of  the  village. 

He  paused  in  front  of  it,  and  looked  all  about, 
Within  a  stone's  throw  of  where  he  stood  Elias  Lear 
was  concealed  behind  the  trunk  of  a  great  elm  —  and 
very  safely  concealed. 

The  detective  saw  Mr.  Mayhew  take  up  a  few  peb- 
bles from  the  walk,  and  throw  them  against  the 
window. 

The  house  had  been  quite  dark,  but  upon  this  signal 
a  light  appeared  at  a  window. 

The  front  door  was  opened  in  such  a  way  as  not  to 
disclose  who  was  within.  Mr.  Mayhew  quickly  entered; 
the  door  was  closed  again  and  locked. 

The  light  reappeared,  but  now  at  the  windows  on 
the  side  of  the  house.  The  light  was  soft,  as  if  from  a 
lamp  turned  down. 

Along  this  side  ran  a  verandah,  with  steps  at  the  end. 
Two  windows  came  down  to  within  eighteen  inches  of 
the  floor  of  the  verandah.  Both  were  shuttered;  one 
was  slightly  raised,  the  night  being  warm.  The  cur- 
tain was  half  raised. 

At  one  glance  the  detective  took  in  all  these  details. 
He  saw  by  the  way  the  light  came  through  the  slats  of 


86  SHADOWED    BY    NIGHT 

the  shutters  that  the  curtain  must  be  somewhat  raised. 
He  had  quickly  removed  his  shoes,  and  creeping 
stealthily  along  the  verandah,  lay  at  full  length  under 
the  window.  He  heard  a  murmur  of  voices  within, 
which  told  him  that  the  window  was  a  little  raised. 

Perfectly  concealed  in  the  shadow  where  he  lay,  he 
could  not  have  been  discovered  from  the  street,  or  even 
from  within  the  window,  except  by  aid  of  a  lamp. 

Something  more  than  voices  he  heard.  The  sound 
of  kissing,  twice  repeated,  came  plainly  to  his  ear. 

His  position  was  painful,  but  he  dared  not  take  the 
risk  yet  of  sitting  upright.  Instead,  he  elevated  his 
shoulders  so  that  his  ear  was  on  the  level  of  the  lower 
part  of  the  blind. 

Then,  not  only  voices,  but  words  were  plainly  heard. 
He  listened,  and  drank  in  every  syllable. 

"  O  Weston,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again!  "  The 
voice  was  that  of  a  woman,  soft  and  musical,  but  rather 
loud. 

"  Well,  Phebe,"  Mr.  Mayhew  replied,  "  Til  believe  it, 
even  if  you  don't  let  all  the  neighbors  know  it. " 

"  Forgive  me,  Weston;  I'll  speak  lower.  I  always 
feel  so  happy  when  you  come,  that  I  forget  to  be  pru- 
dent. Let  me  kiss  you  again. " 

A  significant  sound  indicated  that  she  had  done  as 
she  wished. 

"  Well,  how  is  everything  to-night?     Are  we  safe?" 

"  O»  yes>  *  g0*  everything  ready  when  you  let  me 
know  that  you  were  coming." 

"  Where's  that  domestic?" 

"  I  let  her  go  home  till  to-morrow.  She  won't  be 
back  till  seven. " 

"  And  there's  nobody  about  to  look  in  on  us,  or 
overhear  what  we  say?" 

"  No,  Weston;  not  a  soul.  Make  yourself  easy  about 
that." 

"  Has  anything  happened  since  I  was  here  to  make 
you  think  anybody  suspects  us?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    THE    CASE  87 

"  Not  a  thing.  I  believe  our  secret  is  perfectly 
safe." 

"  Very  good.  Because  if  I  had  any  reason  to  think 
that  I  had  been  seen  or  known  to  come  here,  I  can  tell 
you  of  a  certain  lady  who  would  leave  Bardwell  im- 
mediately." 

A  suppressed  cry  came  from  the  woman. 

"  O  Weston,  dear  Weston,  you  would  not  send  me 
away?" 

"  Indeed  I  would,  Phebe;  indeed  I  will,  whenever  I 
discover  that  there  is  the  least  whisper  about  you  and 
me." 

"  You  are  so  cruel!     I  don't  believe  you  love  me." 

"  Now,  Phebe,  don't  be  foolish!  I  love  you  enough 
to  satisfy  any  reasonable  woman,  and  I  will  continue 
to  just  so  long  as  it  is  safe.  But  I  tell  you  now,  as  I 
have  told  you  before,  that  our  love  must  be  in  secret. 
Let  any  living  person  know  of  it,  and  I'll  send  you  off 
without  the  slightest  compunction." 

A  sound  of  sobbing  reached  the  ear  of  the  detective. 
The  conversation  was  suspended  while  it .  continued; 
but  he  heard  the  sound  of  Mr.  Mayhew's  feet  as  he 
walked  to  and  fro  in  the  room. 

An  overpowering  desire  to  see  the  two,  as  well  as  to 
hear  them,  seized  upon  him.  They  were  now  absorbed 
in  themselves,  and  in  the  subject  of  their  talk,  so  that 
the  attempt  could  be  safely  made.  Mr.  Lear  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  shutter,  and  looked  through  the  slats. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  CASE. 

HE  saw  Weston  Mayhew  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  biting  his  nails,  and  frowning. 

The  apartment  was  elegantly  furnished  and  carpeted. 
Ornaments  and  bric-a-brac  in  profusion  were  there.  An 
upright  piano  stood  in  the  corner.  Beautiful  oil  paint- 


88  THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   CASE 

ings  decorated  the  walls.  Everything  that  money  and 
taste  could  do  to  make  a  charming  bower  of  this  room, 
had  been  done.  A  glimpse  was  had  through  an  open 
door  of  a  luxuriously  furnished  bed-chamber.  A  gas 
chandelier,  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  was  brilliant  with 
pendants;  but  the  light  was  turned  down. 

A  large,  but  perfectly  proportioned  woman,  of  about 
thirty  years,  sat  in  one  of  the  deep  easy  chairs.  She 
was  drying  her  eyes  with  a  lace  handkerchief,  and  the 
concealed  watcher  at  once  recognized  her  as  a  lady  who 
had  been  pointed  out  on  the  street  to  him  as  Mrs. 
Phebe  Bashford,  a  wealthy  widow.  She  wore  a  rich 
dress  of  blue  silk,  low  in  the  neck  and  with  short 
sleeves,  which  harmonized  with  her  dark  beauty.  She 
had  great  masses  of  hair  that  was  almost  black,  arranged 
in  coils  upon  her  head,  large  dark  eyes,  regular  and 
handsome  features.  To  men  easily  impressed  by 
female  beauty,  her  smile  was  enchanting.  Diamonds 
glittered  in  her  ears  and  upon  her  ringers. 

Weston  Mayhew  passed  in  his  walk  near  her.  She 
rose  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  He  did  not 
repulse  her;  he  stood  there  rather  indifferently,  while 
the  magnificent  creature,  overrunning  with  love  and 
emotion,  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  and  laid  her  head  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  Do  forgive  me,  Weston,"  she  pleaded.  "  I 
know  I  vex  you  by  my  importunities,  but  I  can't  help 
it.  I  want  you  all  the  time;  I  want  you  all  to  myself." 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  that  she  had  just  vacated. 
She  threw  herself  on  an  ottoman  at  his  feet,  resting  her 
white  arms  on  his  knees,  and  looking  pleadingly  up 
into  his  face. 

"  Then  behave  yourself,"  he  said.  "  Be  reasonable. 
Take  what  you  can  get  of  me,  and  be  thankful  for  it. 
You  ought  to  be  glad  that  I  don't  repudiate  you  alto- 
gether." 

Her  bosom  heaved  convulsively;  her  eyelids  shook 
with  quick-springing  tears. 


THE   WOMAN    IN    THE    CASE  89 

"  Now,  see  here,  Phebe,"  said  Mr.  Mayhew,  pettishly, 
"  you  are  putting  in  rather  more  of  the  doleful  to-night 
than  I  can  stand.  What  is  it  that  you  complain  of?" 

"  I  don't  complain,  Weston;  I  won't." 

"  But  you  do  whenever  I  come  here.  You  know 
that  I  come  to  enjoy  myself  with  you,  and  I  hate 
these  tears  and  wailings.  Haven't  you  got  everything 
here  you  want?  —  books,  fine  furniture,  music,  a  servant 
to  wait  on  you?" 

"Yes,  Weston;  but  -  " 

"  Don't  I  give  you  money  enough?     Here  is  some 


now." 


He  drew  a  wad  of  bank-notes  from  his  vest  pocket 
and  threw  it  into  her  corsage. 

"  You  are  too  generous  with  me,  Weston.  I  don't 
need  -  " 

"  And  you  have  diamonds,  haven't  you?  —  and  fine 
dresses?" 

"Yes;  but  -  " 

"  Don't  the  ladies  call  on  you?  Are  you  not  petted, 
and  flattered,  and  invited  out  to  parties  and  teas  be- 
cause you  are  supposed  to  be  Mrs.  Phebe  Bashford,  the 
rich  California  widow?  " 

She  assented  by  her  silence. 

"  Some  of  the  men  are  making  sheep's-eyes  at  you, 
ain't  they?  It  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  Phebe,  if  you 
find  one  you  like,  and  rich  enough  to  relieve  me  of  any 
further  responsibility,  to  marry  him.  " 

Her  dark  eyes  flashed. 

"  Weston  Mayhew!  "  she  cried,  indignantly. 

"  Oh,  suit  yourself,  Phebe;  I  don't  care.  I  find  it 
pleasant  enough  to  pass  some  hours  with  you  in  secret 
every  week,  when  you  won't  go  into  your  heroics. 
What  do  you  want?  —  tell  me  frankly." 

"  I  will.  I  don't  like  this  stolen  love.  There  is  a 
sting  to  it;  it  leaves  a  sorrow  behind." 

"  Now  you're  getting  poetical  and  romantic,  Phebe. 


90  THE    WOMAN   IN   THE    CASE 

I  tell  you,  the  only  kind  of  love  that  can  exist  between 
you  and  me  is  just  this  kind.  So  make  the  best  of  it. " 

She  shuddered,  but  went  on,  with  an  effort: 

"  I  meet  you  on  the  street,  and  I  have  to  bow  po- 
litely to  you,  as  I  would  to  any  one  else.  I  meet  you 
at  parties,  and  you  have  formal  compliments  for  me, 
just  the  same  as  for  any  other  woman.  Nobody 
dreams  that  I  have  a  better  right  to  you  than  any  other 
woman  can  have.  The  other  night  at  Mrs.  Hamlin's 
party  you  took  that  pert  minx,  June  Gregory,  out  to 
supper,  and  waited  on  her  home  after  the  party  was 
over.  How  do  you  suppose  it  made  me  feel  to  see 
such  things?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Phebe.  I  almost  said,  '  I  don't 
care.'  And  I  don't  —  much.  I  repeat  what  I  said 
before,  you  had  better  make  the  best  of  it,  be  reason- 
able, and  enjoy  what  you  can  get  out  of  me." 

Mr.  Mayhew  stuck  out  his  legs,  and  yawned. 

"  I  want  more  than  you  give  me." 

"  Indeed !  Well,  tell  me  what  you  want,  that  you 
haven't  got." 

Her  reply  came  as  distinctly  to  the  ear  of  the 
detective  at  the  shutter  as  had  the  previous  con- 
versation. 

"  I  want  you  to  take  me  home  to  you,  and  ack- 
nowledge me  to  the  world  for  what  I  am  —  your 
lawful  wife!" 

He  heard,  and  he  thrust  her  violently  from  him. 
She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  beseechingly  into 
his  face. 

"  Oh,  that's  your  game,  is  it,  Mrs.  Bashford?  "  he 
said.  "  My  wife,  are  you?  How  would  you  go  to 
work  to  prove  it?" 

"  We  were  lawfully  married,"  she  sobbed. 

"  Grant  it.  In  California,  more  than  ten  years 
ago,  by  a  magistrate.  You've  told  me  a  dozen  times 
that  you  never  got  a  certificate. " 

She  was  silent. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    THE    CASE  9 1 

"  Is  that  true?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  so." 

"  I  say,  is  it  true?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  her  face  turned  from 
him. 

"  Pretty  fix  you'd  be  in,  then!  "  he  scornfully  said. 
"  Claim  to  be  married  to  Weston  Mayhew,  indeed! — 
the  biggest  man  in  Bardwell.  No  certificate  to  prove 
it.  If  the  witnesses  are  living,  which  is  doubtful,  they 
are  three  thousand  miles  away;  upon  my  indignant 
denial,  you'd  be  warned  out  of  town,  as  an  adven- 
turess."" 

"  O,  nothing  could  exceed  your  cruelty!  Why  did 
I  not  die,  instead  of  following  you  here?  " 

"  I  sometimes  think  that  it  would  have  been  in  better 
taste,"  the  man  brutally  replied.  "  But  say  we  were 
married.  You  know  that  you  consented  to  keep  it 
secret  in  California;  and  you  know  why.  You  did  the 
wooing,  madam;  you  were  love-crazy  after  me.  I  was 
quite  indifferent  to  the  whole  business.  I  consented 
to  a  marriage,  to  save  your  scruples;  but  only  on  condi- 
tion that  the  thing  should  be  kept  perfectly  dark.  Well, 
we  lived  there  at  Yerba  Buena  about  as  we  have  lived 
here.  When  I  got  ready  to  come  East,  I  made  an 
ample  provision  there  for  you  and  your  boy,  and  bade 
you  good-by,  hoping  and  expecting  never  to  see  you 
again.  But,  two  years  ago,  you  came  to  Bardwell." 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  the  unhappy  woman  pleaded, 
amid  her  fast-falling  tears.  "  My  darling  boy  died,  my 
precious  West!  O,  how  like  you  he  looked  and  acted! 
and  I  could  not  stay  there  alone.  I  was  hungering  for 
love;  I  wanted  you.  I  came  here;  you  know  I  have 
obeyed  you;  you  know  how  closely  the  secret  has 
been  guarded,  and  you  know  how  grateful  I  have  been 
for  all  that  you  have  done  for  me.  But  I  want  —  Oh, 
how  I  crave  to  have  you  publicly  acknowledge  me  as 
your  wife." 


Q2  THE    WOMAN    IN   THE    CASE 

"  Well,  then,  madam,  we  might  as  well  have  a  plain 
understanding  as  not.  I  never  will. " 

"  Never?" 

"  No,  never!" 

She  did  not  faint,  nor  shriek,  nor  plead.  She  looked 
at  him  in  an  apathy  of  despair. 

"  You  will  kill  me,"  she  said.  "  But  I  love  you  well 
enough  yet  to  die  for  you." 

"  You  needn't  die  yet  awhile,"  was  his  answer. 
"  Phebe,  I  wasn't  joking  a  minute  ago,  when  I  said 
that  the  correct  thing  would  be  for  you  to  get  married. 
You  see " 

She  gave  a  fierce  little  cry,  such  as  a  wounded  lion- 
ess might  utter. 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  all  one  to  me.  I  only  mention  it, 
because  the  time  is  coming  when  such  an  arrangement 
would  probably  be  more  comfortable  to  you.  The  fact 
is,  I  am  very  likely  to  be  married  myself  before  long. " 

Her  eyes,  her  whole  face,  were  eloquent  with  rage 
and  passion. 

"  What!"  she  cried.     "  To  June  Gregory?" 

"  Yes;  you  might  as  well  know." 

"You  won't  dare  do  it!" 

"Indeed  I  will,  my  dear.  You  are  certainly  in  no 
condition  to  prevent  it." 

"I'll  kill  her!" 

He  laughed  in  her  face. 

"  I'll  kill  myself!  "  she  cried,  with  a  flood  of  tears. 

Weston  Mayhew  put  an  arm  about  the  waist  of  the 
enraged,  sobbing  woman,  and  raised  her  up.  He 
took  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes;  he  smoothed 
her  tumbled  hair;  he  even  called  her  "  Queen  Phebe," 
the  pet  name  he  had  given  her  of  old,  and  once  he 
kissed  her  lips.  She  was  won  back  to  gentle  words  by 
his  tenderness;  she  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  put 
a  well-rounded  arm  about  his  neck. 

Let  us  pity  her;    let  us  not  condemn  her.      There 


UNDER    THE    SPELL  93 

is  no  more  sorrowful  spectacle  in  the  world  than  that 
of  the  woman  who  loves  too  well. 

Learning  every  word  of  this  strange  interview,  the 
detective  knew  that  something  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance was  yet  to  come. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

UNDER  THE   SPELL. 

A  CLEAR  chime  from  the  ormolu  clock  on  the 
marble  shelf  had  some  time  before  marked  the  hour  of 
midnight. 

"  Are  you  tired,  dear  Weston?"  the  woman  asked. 

"  Yes;  and,  to  tell  the  whole  truth,  devilish  hungry, 
too." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  said,  clapping 
her  hands  gleefully.  "  I  thought  I  should  please  you, 
Weston.  I  had  Emilia  cook  a  chicken  and  make  some 
biscuit  for  you.  Wait  a  very  few  minutes  while  I  go 
and  set  the  table,  and  make  a  cup  of  tea. " 

She  left  the  room.  The  detective  saw  the  merchant 
take  two  or  three  hasty  turns  about  the  room.  An 
aggravating  hint  had  arisen  out  of  the  conversation 
just  had,  and  Mr.  Mayhew  was  tormented  by  it  to 
that  extent  that  he  began  to  soliloquize  about  it. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  jade  really  has  a  marriage  certifi- 
cate?" 

The  concealed  listener  had  noted  the  hesitation  with 
which  the  woman  denied  having  such  a  paper.  And 
he  had  observed  the  suspicion  that  at  the  instant 
showed  itself  in  Mayhew's  face. 

"  It  is  just  like  a  woman  to  get  such  a  thing  secretly, 
keep  it  quietly  and  lie  about  it  when  asked.  I'd  give 
one  thousand  dollars  this  moment  to  be  certain  about 
it." 

Another  turn  about  the  room  and  the  merchant  mut- 
tered an  expression  of  satisfaction. 


94  UNDER   THE    SPELL 

"  That's  it—  that's  it!  By  the  Lord  Harry,  I'll  make 
her  tell." 

The  woman  appeared  in  the  doorway  at  this  moment, 
smiling  and  holding  out  her  jeweled  white  hand. 

"  Come,  Weston,"  she  said.     "  All  ready." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Phebe,"  Mr.  Mayhew  exclaimed. 
"  There's  something  important  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  Sit 
down  here  in  this  chair  —  that's  it.  Do  you  remember 
the  view  from  the  windows  of  your  sitting-room  in  the 
California  home  —  the  view  of  the  distant  mountain 
peaks,  with  their  tops  covered  with  snow,  and  the 
beautiful  effect  of  sunrise  and  sunset  upon  them, 

and " 

He  was  sitting  directly  before  her,  looking  stead- 
ily into  her  eyes,  talking  straight  on,  without  break  or 
pause.  She  seemed  uneasy  just  after  he  had  begun, 
and  struggled  as  if  to  rise  from  the  chair.  She  could 
not.  All  her  faculties  were  under  the  control  of  the 
man  before  her,  who  was  exerting  over  her  his  mes- 
meric powers,  to  which  she  was  susceptible  in  a  re- 
markable degree.  A  few  passes  before  her  face  with 
his  hands  completed  the  mysterious  spell  —  a  spell  the 
nature  of  which  science  cannot  yet  define.  She  sighed, 
slightly  yawned,  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  was  in  a  per- 
fect mesmeric  trance.  Weston  Mayhew  smiled;  he 
knew  he  could  direct  her  thoughts  and  speech  into  any 
channel  that  he  chose. 

"  You  said  you  were  married,"  he  pronounced  in  a 
low  but  distinct  voice.  He  took  her  hands,  so  that 
the  influence  might  be  more  positive. 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  the  sleeper  uttered. 

"  But  you  had  no  certificate?" 

"  I  did.  I  went  to  the  magistrate  one  day  and  got 
it;  and  he  got  the  witnesses  to  sign  it.  Weston  did 
not  know  it,  but  I  got  it." 

"  You  have  not  got  it  now?  f\ 

"  I  have  got  it  now." 

"  Where  is  it?  " 


UNDER   THE   SPELL  95 

She  struggled  in  her  sleep;  she  spoke  through  her 
shut  teeth. 

"  I  never  told  where  it  is  kept.     That  is  my  secret." 

"  Where  is  it?  "  was  repeated  in  the  same  cold,  calm 
voice. 

She  hesitated  again.  Her  face  worked.  She  did 
not  answer. 

"  Where  —  is  —  the  —  marriage  —  certificate?  " 

The  answer  came  reluctantly,  but  quite  distinct: 

"  In  Shakespeare's  Plays,  at  the  beginning  of  Timon 
of  Athens." 

Mr.  Mayhew  walked  over  to  a  bookcase  with  glass 
doors,  selected  the  volume,  opened  it  to  the  place  indi- 
cated, and  there  found  the  paper.  He  carefully  exam- 
ined it;  then,  to  the  surprise  of  the  watcher,  instead  of 
putting  it  in  his  pocket,  he  shut  it  up  again  in  the  book. 

But  his  meaning  quickly  occurred  to  the  detective. 
Should  he  then  abstract  it,  Mrs.  Bashford  (as  we  will  still 
call  her)  might  discover  its  loss,  and  be  led  to  do  some- 
thing desperate.  He  could  secure  it  any  time,  now 
that  he  knew  where  it  was,  and  he  would  wait  until 
the  last  visit  he  proposed  to  make  to  this  house,  imme- 
diately before  his  marriage  with  June  Gregory,  and 
then  secure  and  destroy  the  obnoxious  paper. 

So  Mr.  Mayhew  reasoned,  and  so  the  detective  inter- 
preted his  forbearance  on  the  spot. 

The  merchant  came  back  to  the  subject  in  the  chair, 
still  held  in  the  chains  of  her  trance,  and,  with  a  few 
passes  with  his  hands  about  her  face,  set  her  free.  She 
opened  her  eyes,  stared  around  her,  and  seemed 
bewildered. 

"Why,  what  has  happened?"  she  cried.  "What 
am  I  sitting  down  here  for?  " 

"  I  said  that  I  was  tired  as  well  as  hungry,  when  you 
asked  me,"  replied  Mayhew,  coolly.  u  But  I  did  not 
suppose  you  were  going  to  sit  down  right  here  after 
calling  me  to  supper,  and  go  to  sleep." 


g6  UNDER  THE    SPELL 

Her  laughter  rang  a  clear,  merry  peal  through  the 
room. 

"  Did  I  really  do  that  ?  Why,  what  got  into  me  ? 
I  didn't  know  I  was  sleepy  ;  don't  believe  I  was.  It's 
very  stupid  of  me.  But  come  out  to  tea,  and  don't  say 
anything  more  about  it." 

The  hypocrite  placed  his  arm  about  her,  simulating 
an  affection  that  might  deceive  her.  How  willing  she 
was  to  be  deceived!  She  placed  her  clasped  hands  on 
his  shoulder  and  reached  up  for  a  kiss,  murmuring  the 
words  : 

"  Be  good  to  me,  Weston;  Oh,  do  be  good  to  me  ! " 

The  detective's  fingers  were  passed  through  between 
the  slats  of  the  blinds  ;  the  blind  was  unhasped,  the 
window  raised,  and  he  stepped  lightly  into  the  vacant 
room.  In  not  more  than  one  minute  he  had  secured 
the  certificate  from  the  volume,  and  was  out  again  on 
the  verandah,  re-closing  the  window  and  the  blinds. 
He  walked  to  the  steps  and  put  on  his  shoes.  He  was 
stiff  and  aching  from  the  constraint  of  the  position  he 
had  kept  so  long  ;  but  he  was  filled  with  the  sense  of 
his  triumph. 

"  I  hope  Madam  will  not  look  for  that  paper  before  I 
confront  Mr.  Weston  Mayhew  with  it,"  he  reflected. 
"  If  she  should,  it  can't  be  helped;  she  shall  have  justice, 
anyway." 

Not  until  he  had  gained  his  room  at  the  hotel,  locked 
the  door,  and  lit  the  gas,  did  he  examine  his  prize.  It 
read  thus  : 

State  of  California,     > 

County  of  Mendocino,  >  S!       Be  it   remembered,  that 

on  this  Qth  day  of  November, 

A.  D.  1865,  at  Yerba  Buena,  I,  the  undersigned,  a 
magistrate  of  said  county,  have  joined  in  the  estate  of 
matrimony,  according  to  the  laws  of  said  State,  Weston 
Mayhew,  merchant,  aged  36,  and  Phebe  Bashford, 
spinster,  aged  20.  CARLOS  NOGALES. 

Witnesses:  PETER  BLUNT,  ALONZO  CANALIS. 


PERVERSE    FATES  97 

"  You  are  fast  getting  to  the  end  of  your  tether,  Mr. 
Mayhew,"  he  said,  as  he  put  away  the  certificate. 

The  detective  went  to  bed,  but  the  exciting  events  of 
the  night  kept  him  awake.  When  he  did  at  last  fall 
asleep,  his  slumber  was  light.  In  the  hour  next  before 
daylight  he  was  drowsing,  rather  than  sleeping.  He 
heard  footfalls  outside.  They  passed  his  door  and 
went  on  along  the  hall.  He  rose,  unclosed  his  door 
without  noise,  and  listened.  The  second  door  from  his 
on  the  other  side  was  opened  and  closed.  It  was  Wes- 
ton  Mayhew's  room.  Like  a  thief  in  the  night  he  had 
skulked  back  from  Mrs.  Bashford's  just  before  the 
dawn. 

"  I  have  sometimes  pitied  the  men  that  I  have  de- 
livered to  justice,"  mused  the  detective.  "But  there 
will  be  no  pity  for  you,  you  cold-blooded  scoundrel!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

PERVERSE   FATES. 

THE  three  days  next  following  were  days  of  deep 
thought  and  anxiety  to  Elias  Lear. 

He  was  —  or  he  thought  he  was  —  master  of  the 
situation.  But  his  course  was  not  exactly  clear  to 
him. 

The  whole  experience  and  history  of  his  detective 
life  had  been  one  repeated  lesson  against  precipitation. 
He  had  learned  not  to  frighten  away  the  bird  before  it 
was  fairly  in  the  net. 

He  was  strongly  tempted  to  go  straight  to  Emmanuel 
Gregory,  although  a  stranger  to  him,  and,  exhibiting 
the  marriage  certificate,  convict  Weston  Mayhew  of 
intended  bigamy,  and  expose  him  to  the  scorn  and 
detestation  of  the  whole  village. 

We  know  now  that  had  he  done  so  June  would  have 
been  instantly  rescued  from  the  clutch  of  this  human 
A  Sharp  Nighfs  Work  7 


98  PERVERSE   FATES 

hyena,  and  the  stirring  events  of  the  night  of  Septem- 
ber 1 8th,  yet  to  be  detailed  at  length,  would  have  been 
averted. 

But  the  one  fatal  item  of  information  that  the  detect- 
ive did  not  obtain,  and  which  it  was  hardly  possible 
for  him  to  obtain  in  advance,  was,  that  the  wedding 
was  to  take  place  on  that  evening. 

In  fact,  the  invitations  were  never  issued  till  the 
evening  of  the  i/th.  Mr.  Mayhew  had  grown  suspi- 
cious and  anxious  about  Mrs.  Bashford.  The  incident 
of  the  certificate  had  alarmed  him.  Another  incident 
still  more  alarmed  him.  He  had  set  in  his  own  mind 
the  night  of  the  i6th  as  the  time  that  he  would  make  a 
last  visit  to  that  house,  and  by  stealth  and  stratagem 
obtain  the  certificate.  He  went,  as  usual,  in  the  dead 
of  night;  he  threw  gravel  against  the  window,  but  his 
signal  was  not  answered.  The  house  continued  dark. 
He  ventured  to  try  the  door,  but  it  was  locked.  He 
went  away  in  a  most  unpleasant  frame  of  mind. 

What  did  it  mean?  Was  Mrs.  Bashford  sulky,  and 
so  unmindful  of  his  signal?  Or  had  she  gone  away 
somewhere,  on  some  mission  of  mischief  to  himself? 

Whichever  it  was,  he  resolved  that  his  wedding 
should  take  place  quickly,  and  with  as  little  notice  as 
possible.  By  what  lies  he  satisfied  June  and  her  par- 
ents that  there  was  need  of  great  haste,  as  well  as 
secrecy,  need  not  be  related.  The  preparations  went 
on,  quietly  and  prosperously;  the  Gregorys  proud  and 
delighted  that  June  should  wed  the  foremost  man  of 
the  village,  the  more  easily  overlooked  the  strangeness 
of  his  anxiety  for  dispatch  and  silence  as  to  an  event 
which  is  commonly  ushered  in  with  joy  and  publicity. 

Mr.  Mayhew  had  also  a  lurking  uneasiness  in  regard 
to  his  crimes  against  the  mails.  He  began  to  dread 
the  sudden  reappearance  of  Ernest  Mulford  in  the  vil- 
lage. He  began  to  say  to  himself  that  he  was  run- 
ning serious  risks,  and  that  he  had  better  put  an  end 
to  them. 


PERVERSE     FATES  99 

He  was  venturing  everything  in  his  headstrong  pas- 
sion for  June.  And,  as  Mr.  Lear  afterward  shrewdly 
guessed,  he  had  made  his  arrangements  not  to  return 
to  Bardwell.  He  had  quietly  turned  his  property  into 
money,  or  easily  handled  securities;  even  his  store  he 
had  sold  by  correspondence  to  parties  in  New  York, 
who  knew  him  and  the  stock,  and  who  bought  upon 
the  inventory  furnished,  to  be  delivered  on  the  iQth. 
He  had  forwarded  his  resignation  as  postmaster.  And 
poor  June!  She  little  thought,  her  blind  and  deluded 
parents  never  imagined,  that  she  was  being  sold  to  a 
modern  Bluebeard,  who  was  proposing  for  her  and  for 
himself  an  exile  of  thousands  of  miles,  from  which 
there  would  be  no  return! 

Thus  it  will  easily  be  seen  how  the  detective,  with 
the  whole  community,  was  misled  in  regard  to  the 
time  of  the  wedding.  When  Mr.  Lear  was  saying  to 
himself  that  there  was  plenty  of  time  yet  for  him  to 
publish  the  marriage  certificate  to  all  Bardwell,  the 
wedding  that  was  to  make  Weston  Mayhew  a  bigamist, 
and  June  Gregory  a  forlorn,  deceived  bride,  was-on  the 
eve  of  being  celebrated. 

But  on  the  morning  of  the  i8th  Mr.  Lear  deter- 
mined that  the  time  was  ripe  for  his  own  thunderbolt 
to  be  hurled  at  the  guilty  man,  and  for  Ernest  Mul- 
ford's  vindication. 

He  resolved  to  go  to  Granby,  without  letting  his 
mission  or  his  whereabouts  be  known.  He  would  find 
Ernest;  he  would  have  affidavits  drawn  up,  and 
warrants  obtained;  they  would  return  with  a  marshal, 
and  Mr.  Mayhew  would  be  arrested  on  so  many 
separate  charges  that  it  would  not  be  possible  for  him 
to  obtain  bail.  He  would  be  jailed,  convicted  in  due 
time,  and  consigned  to  the  penitentiary.  Ernest's 
vindication  would  follow, as  a  matter  of  course;  explana- 
tions between  him  and  June  could  not  fail  to  make 
them  lovers;  and  Mrs.  Bashford's  true  story  should  be 
made  public  —  although  he  rather  expected  that  the 


IOO  THE   TELEGRAM 

infatuated  woman  would  break  her  heart  over  her 
graceless  husband  in  a  felon's  cell. 

All  this  the  detective  planned  as  he  took  the  cars  at 
Bardwell  for  Granby  on  the  morning  of  the  i8th. 
"  Man  proposes  —  God  disposes. "  We  have  seen  the 
untoward  result.  The  astounding  discovery  that  the 
wedding  at  Mr.  Gregory's  was  to  take  place  that  very 
night;  the  breathless  race  against  time;  the  madden- 
ing failure,  when  casualty  had  been  piled  upon  casualty, 
and  fate,  time  and  accident  all  seemed  aiding  the 
wicked  and  overwhelming  the  innocent  —  these  things 
have  been  sufficiently  related.  At  half-past  nine 
o'clock  of  that  night  the  contest  was  apparently  over; 
the  fight  was  lost!  The  detective  lay  sick  at  the  little 
inn  at  Granby;  Ernest  Mulford,  weary,  beaten,  fainting, 
was  making  his  revelation  to  his  relatives  and  their 
guests,  horror  stricken  at  the  mansion,  and  the  triumph- 
ant bigamist  and  his  cruelly  deceived  bride  were 
speeding  westward  from  Bardwell  on  their  wedding 
j<5urney,  from  which  Weston  Mayhew  expected  that 
there  would  be  no  return! 

But  the  night  was  not  yet  gone. 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE  TELEGRAM. 

DISTRESS,  agitation,  curiosity  pervaded  the  Gregory 
mansion.  With  the  startling  arrival  of  Ernest  Mulford, 
and  with  the  tidings  that  he  bore,  all  the  joyous 
festivities  were  instantly  suspended.  A  very  painful 
awkwardness  began  to  prevail  among  the  guests. 
Either  a  great  woe  or  a  great  fright  and  scandal  were 
impending  over  this  family,  and  at  this  most  inoppor- 
tune of  all  hours.  The  guests  sadly  began  to  realize 
that  they  were  in  the  way.  By  twos  and  threes  they 
got  ready  and  took  their  departure,  most  of  them 
refraining  from  bidding  the  host  and  hostess  good-night. 


THE    TELEGRAM         ,..,..,,  T,QI 

Poor  Mrs.  Gregory  sat  rocking' to'  arid' fr'o' and  wringing 
her  hands,  moaning,  "  O  June !  —  O  my  dear  lost  June !  " 
Mr.  Gregory  stood  in  perfect  bewilderment,  hardly  able 
to  comprehend  the  full  force  of  the  blow.  A  few 
intimate  friends  had  remained;  some  of  the  ladies  were 
endeavoring  to  soothe  Mrs.  Gregory,  and  three  or  four 
of  the  men-folk  were  standing  about,  anxious  to  do 
something,  but  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 

Ernest  Mulford's  overstrained  system  seemed  to  have 
given  way.  The  fiery  energy  that  had  thus  far  borne 
him  up  had  halted  beneath  the  shock  of  failure;  and 
when  the  will  faltered,  nerves  and  muscles  gave  way. 
He  sat  listlessly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  paying  no 
heed  to  any  one  present. 

At  this  juncture  Dr.  Eldridge  stepped  forward.  The 
doctor  was  a  sleek,  rotund  person,  fond  of  society  and 
good  cheer,  but  well  skilled  in  his  profession. 

"  This  is  most  extraordinary,  Mr.  Mulford,"  he  said. 
"  Have  you  proof  of  what  you  say?  " 

"  Full  proof,"  said  Ernest,  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a 
whisper. 

"  Is  it  not  possible  that  you  wrongly  accuse  Mr. 
Mayhew  of  having  a  living  wife  before  the  marriage  of 
to-night?" 

"  The  certificate  of  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Phebe 
Bashford  is  in  my  pocket.  She  will  corroborate  it." 

"  O  the  villain!  "  Mrs.  Gregory  moaned.  "  Right 
here  among  us,  and  he  kept  it  secret,  so  he  could 
destroy  our  precious  June  forever.  Now  I  see  why  he 
insisted  on  being  so  hasty  and  so  quiet  about  the 
wedding. " 

"  It  is  extremely  awkward  and  distressing,"  the  doc- 
tor said.  "  And  I'm  afraid  we  can  do  nothing  at  pres- 
ent. Mr.  Mayhew  and  his  bride  are  now  well  on  their 
way  to  New  York.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  be  appre- 
hended. We  will  have  to  wait  till  they  return.  It 
will  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  any  one  to  break  the  news 


10?.  THE    TELEGRAM 

to  June;  but  she'wi'il  have  to  know  it  then,  when  her 
—  when  Mr.  Mayhew  is  arrested." 

Ernest  opened  his  heavy  eyes  and  looked  up. 

"  If  we  wait  till  that  scoundrel  appears  again  in 
Bardwell  before  we  arrest  him,"  he  said,  "  we  shall 
wait  a  long  time.  None  of  us  will  ever  see  him  here 
again.  Aunt  Jerusha,  you  will  never  see  June  again 
if  he  is  not  overtaken.  He  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  with  her." 

There  was  a  fresh  burst  of  sobbing  from  Mrs. 
Gregory. 

"  O,  Emmanuel,  Ernest,  can't  you  overtake  them?" 

"  The  villain  has  made  every  preparation  for  this 
flight,"  the  young  man  went  on.  "  He  has  sold  his  busi- 
ness here  to  New  York  people,  who  will  be  here  to- 
morrow to  take  charge  of  it.  He  has  converted  all  his 
large  property  into  cash  and  securities,  which  I  doubt 
not  he  has  on  his  person  and  in  his  trunk." 

"  Can't  we  telegraph  to  arrest  him?"  Mr.  Gregory 
asked.  "  I  am  willing  to  do  anything  to  reach  the 
monster  and  to  secure  our  poor  child*.  It  is  a  judgment 
upon  me,  for  my  eagerness  to  get  wealth  and  position 
for  June,  and  for  believing  such  shocking  lies  of  you, 
Ernest."  And  the  speaker  groaned  in  his  distress. 

"  Don't  reproach  yourself,  uncle;  almost  everybody 
has  been  deceived  and  blinded  with  you.  Yes,  we 
can  and  will  do  something  yet!  I  am  bruised  in  body 
and  tortured  in  mind;  had  I  arrived  here  in  time  to 
get  the  clutches  of  the  law  on  the  man  whom  you 
justly  call  a  monster,  to  save  June  and  satisfy  her  that  I 
have  been  foully  wronged,  and  that  she  and  I  have  been 
separated  through  the  machinations  of  scheming  vil- 
lainy —  had  I  come  in  time  for  all  this,  I  say,  I  should 
now  be  abed,  with  the  doctor  here  attending  to  me. 
As  it  is,  I  must  go  on;  I  will  not  falter  in  this  pursuit 
till  I  succeed  —  or  till  I  perish!  Weak  and  sick  as  I 
am,  I  have  a  plan  already  formed  in  my  mind;  if  there 


THE   TELEGRAM  1 03 

had  been  the  losing  of  any  time  in  it  by  talking  with 
you  here,  I  should  not  have  delayed  here  a  minute." 

He  tottered  to  the  sofa,  threw  himself  down,  and 
continued  to  talk. 

"  I  must  try  to  rest  a  little,  while  I  tell  you  what  is 
to  be  done.  Doctor,  get  a  time-table;  see  if  this  train 
that  has  just  left  with  Weston  Mayhew  and  June  stops 
at  Randolph." 

"  I  have  a  table  in  my  pocket-book,"  was  the  answer 
Yes,  here  it  is;  Randolph,  10:10." 

"And  at  Beaverton?" 

"  Beaverton,  11 130,"  read  the  doctor. 

"  That  will  do,  Doctor;  write  a  telegram  with  all 
speed  to  the  station-police  at  Randolph,  to  arrest  May- 
hew.  Make  it  full  enough,  and  strong  enough,  and 
sign  uncle's  name  to  it.  " 

Some  of  Ernest's  spirit  had  infused  itself  into  those 
about  him. 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  take  it  right  over  to  the  office,"  eag- 
erly said  Mr.  Gregory.  "  There's  a  horse  and  buggy 
all  ready  in  the  barn,  that  I  had  hitched  up  to  do 
errands  to-night.  Doctor  Eldridge  lends  it." 

The  doctor  produced  a  blank  from  his  capacious 
pocket-book,  and  wrote  the  dispatch.  Ernest  was 
dozing,  but  the  loud  tones  of  the  doctor,  as  he  read 
what  he  had  written,  aroused  him. 

"  Take  it  over,  uncle,  and  see  that  the  operator  puts 
it  right  through.  What's  the  time?" 

14  Twenty  minutes  to  ten." 

"  There's  half  an  hour,  then.  But  make  haste,  and 
wait  for  an  answer.  Come  back  at  once  when  you 
get  it." 

Mr.  Gregory  hurried  away. 

"  I  hope  it'll  do  the  business,"  said  the  doctor.  "  But 
whether  it  does  or  no,  you've  got  to  go  to  bed  at  once, 
Mr.  Mulford.  You  are  feverish;  where's  your  pulse?" 

"  No  bed  for  me  to-night,  Dr.  Eldridge." 

"  But  you've  got  to  rest,  you  must  have  sleep." 


104  AFTER    THE    MARRIAGE 

"  I'm  going  to  get  the  dust  brushed  off  from  me, 
and  have  some  cold  water  on  my  head.  Aunty,  get 
me  some  kind  of  a  coat  to  put  on  in  place  of  this,  that 
is  almost  ripped  off  of  me.  And  please  make  me 
some  coffee,  hot  and  strong;  I  shall  want  it  when  I 
wake  up. " 

"You  won't  wake  up  till  daylight,"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  I  can  tell  you  one  thing:  I  won't  go  to  sleep 
unless  you  promise,  on  your  honor,  that  you  will  wake 
me  up  the  moment  my  uncle  comes  back." 

"Well,  I  promise,"  said  the  doctor,  seeing  that 
opposition  was  useless. 

After  his  ablution  and  the  use  of  the  brush,  with 
some  changes  in  his  torn  garments,  Ernest  lay  down 
again  and  was  instantly  lost  in  sleep.  He  was  awak- 
ened by  the  doctor,  in  forty  minutes,  and  he  heard  his 
uncle  groan : 

"  It's  no  use.     We  can't  stop  them!  " 

CHAPTER  XX. 

AFTER   THE  MARRIAGE. 

THE  ceremony  had  been  performed  at  the  Gregory 
mansion;  the  vows  interchanged  that  bound  the  man 
of  forty-eight  to  the  maiden  of  nineteen,  for  life;  the 
congratulations  had  been  spoken,  the  collation  disposed 
of,  amid  light,  laughter  and  flowers;  and  as  the  time 
grew  pressing  the  farewells  were  said,  the  elaborate 
toilets  of  the  bride  and  groom  were  exchanged  for 
traveling  costumes,  and  Mr.  Weston  and  June  entered 
the  carriage  that  was  to  carry  them  to  the  station. 
There  was  a  chorus  of  God-speeds,  a  shower  of  rice, 
and  a  volley  of  old  shoes  sent  after  the  couple;  and 
then  the  two  were  alone  together. 

The  first  moment  when  the  newly-married  couple 
are  alone! — it  is  a  serious  one. 


AFTER   THE    MARRIAGE  105 

When  the  minister  had  pronounced  the  two  man 
and  wife,  and  congratulated  them,  the  groom  saluted 
the  unresisting  lips  of  his  bride. 

Now,  in  the  solitude  of  the  carriage,  on  that  short 
ride  to  the  station,  he  took  her  hand,  he  put  his  arm 
about  her  waist,  and  sought  to  draw  her  to  him.  He 
breathed  in  her  ear  the  impassioned  words,  "  My  dar- 
ling wife." 

She  turned  her  face  from  him;  she  would  not  permit 
him  to  kiss  her  lips  again.  He  had  to  be  content  with 
pressing  his  to  her  cheek. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  her  sobbing;  he  felt  the  con- 
vulsive throbbing  of  her  form.  And  he  leaned  back 
in  the  cushions  of  the  carriage,  and  was  supremely 
content.  "  It  is,"  he  thought,  "  but  the  natural  aud 
usual  exhibition  of  maiden  modesty.  She  is  also 
grieved  at  leaving  her  home  and  friends  for  the  first 
time.  Patience,  Weston  Mayhew!  You  have  fairly 
won  the  prize;  treat  her  tenderly  now,  and  she  will 
soon  and  gladly  come  to  your  arms." 

So  he  thought;  and  until  the  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  Bardwell  station  his  arm  remained  around  her,  and 
more  than  once  he  whispered,  "  My  darling  wife!" 

She  did  not  turn  her  head,  nor  yield  to  his  caresses 
or  endearing  words.  What  spell  possessed  her? 
What  were  her  thoughts  in  that  hour? 

She  had  wedded  the  richest  and  the  foremost  man 
in  Bardwell.  She  had  become  the  envy  of  the  unmar- 
ried part  of  its  women;  she  had  satisfied  the  ambition 
of  her  simple  foster  parents;  she  had  thought  to  satisfy 
herself. 

Had  she  done  it? 

Alas!  now,  in  the  first  hour  of  her  wifehood,  when 
the  glare  and  glitter,  the  music  and  the  excitement  of 
the  evening  were  things  of  the  past,  and  she  was 
brought  sternly  face  to  face  with  the  man  whom  she 
had  but  just  vowed  to  love,  honor  and  cherish  till 
death  did  them  part — she  bitterly  confessed  to  herself 


106  AFTER   THE    MARRIAGE 

that  she  did  not  love  him,  never  had  loved  him,  and 
never  could. 

The  story  of  her  wooing  and  winning  was  simple 
enough,  and  might  well  be  imagined  from  what  has 
been  told.  She  had  been,  as  she  thought,  rudely 
repulsed  in  her  effort  to  be  reconciled  to  Ernest 
Mulford.  The  seeming  repulse  had  bitterly  humiliated 
her,  as  it  would  have  humiliated  any  woman.  Her 
pride  was  wounded;  and  when,  just  at  that  time,  Mr. 
Mulford  made  his  first  advances,  she  was  in  the  mood 
to  encourage  them,  and  thus  to  show  Ernest  Mulford 
and  all  others  that  her  affections  need  not  go  begging. 
For  Weston  Mayhew  personally  she  had  never  enter- 
tained the  very  first  spark  of  genuine  affection.  Indeed, 
how  could  it  be,  that  this  young,  lovely,  winsome 
creature,  could  love  this  gross  and  sensual  being,  with 
all  his  years,  and  even  with  his  riches?  She  was  over- 
come by  wounded  pride,  by  the  appeals  of  her  parents, 
by  the  perseverance  of  the  suitor,  with  the  golden 
prizes  that  he  held  out  to  her.  With  Ernest  Mulford 
forgotten,  or  remembered  only  to  be  revenged  upon, 
she  was  in  that  condition  described  by  the  poet: 

"  Women,  like  moths,  are  ever  caught  by  glare, 
And  Mammon  wins  his  way  where  seraphs  might  despair. " 

They  descended  from  the  carriage,  in  the  glare  of  the 
station  lamps.  She  took  his  offered  arm  and  accom- 
panied him  to  the  waiting-room.  Her  face  was  white 
and  fixed.  It  would  have  been  awful  to  see  for  any 
person  who  well  knew  her —  the  rigid,  hopeless  face  of 
that  beautiful  girl,  as  the  conviction  rushed  upon  her 
mind  that  she  had  sacrificed  herself  for  life ! 

Yet  she  faced  the  future  that  she  had  chosen  for  her- 
self; faced  it  bravely,  if  desperately. 

Mr.  Mayhew  had  already  secured  tickets  for  New 
York,  and  checks  for  the  four  large  trunks  were 
obtained.  The  train  came  in  on  time;  and  Ernest 
Mulford,  bitterly  reflecting  later  in  the  evening,  was  not 


IO8  AFTER    THE    MARRIAGE 

comforted  by  the  thought  that,  had  he  remained  upon 
this  train,  he  would  have  intercepted  the  pair  at  Bard- 
well,  and  saved  all  the  exhaustion  and  peril  of  the  night. 

They  took  their  seats  in  one  of  the  cars,  and  the  train 
sped  on  its  way. 

The  cars  were  filled.  Mr.  Mayhew,  lost  in  the  con- 
templation of  his  triumph  and  dimly  forming  plans  for 
the  future,  lay  back  in  the  seat,  and,  possessing  himself 
of  June's  hand,  imagined  himself  happy.  He  tried  to 
engage  her  in  conversation,  She  answered  in  mono- 
syllables and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

As  the  first  hour  of  the  journey  neared  its  end,  the 
whistle  screamed  for  Randolph.  The  train  slowed  up; 
the  bell  clanged;  and  the  cars  came  to  a  stop  at  the 
station. 

There  was  the  bustle  of  passengers  entering  and 
leaving  the  train;  there  were  the  cries  of  hackmen  and 
hotel-runners,  and  the  rush  of  escaping  steam  from 
the  engine.  June  watched  the  flitting  panorama  out- 
side, and  listened  to  the  cries,  as  some  diversion  from 
her  own  repressed  misery.  Her  face  was  still  turned 
from  her  husband.  She  became  conscious  that  a  tall 
man  with  a  stick  in  his  hand  and  a  badge  on  his 
breast  had  stopped  by  their  seat,  and  was  conversing 
in  low  tones  with  Mr.  Mayhew. 

She  could  not  hear  their  conversation.  If  she  had 
heard  it,  the  following  would  have  been  its  purport: 

"  Mr.  Mayhew  —  you  know  me,  don't  you?  " 

"  Ah  —  yes!  —  Mr.  Jackman,  the  officer.  What  do 
you  wish?  " 

"Who  is  this  with  you?  " 

"My  wife,  sir." 

"  I  thought  so.  I've  got  a  very  unpleasant  duty  to 
perform,  Mr.  Mayhew.  I  have  a  telegram  to  arrest 
you.  The  train  only  stops  five  minutes;  come  at  once, 
with  the  lady." 


AN    ESCAPE  IC>9 

CHAPTER  XXL 

AN  ESCAPE. 

"  LET  me  see  your  telegram,"  said  Mayhcw.  The 
officer  handed  it  to  him;  he  read  it,  as  follows: 

BARD  WELL,  Sept.  1 8,  9:50  p.  M. 
Station  Police,  Randolph: 

Arrest  Weston  Mayhew;  just  left  here  on  train;  girl 
with  him;  charge,  bigamy.  Will  come  on  next  train, 
with  warrant  and  officer. 

EMMANUEL  GREGORY. 

The  man  had,  at  least,  wonderful  self-control.  Now, 
when  the  dreaded  thunderbolt  at  the  last  moment  had 
descended  upon  him,  he  never  quailed  nor  flinched. 
He  neither  paled  nor  flushed,  nor  did  the  hand  shake 
that  held  the  paper. 

But  he  thought  quickly,  and  his  plan  was  instantly 
taken. 

"  It's  a  very  unpleasant  business  for  me,  Mr.  May- 
hew,"  said  the  officer,  in  apology.  "I  hope  there's 
some  mistake  about  it.  But  you  can  explain  it  in  the 
morning,  when  the  warrant  comes.  Please  hasten,  sir; 
we  haven't  more  than  two  minutes." 

Weston  Mayhew  glanced  at  his  wife.  She  was 
looking,  without  the  least  expression  of  interest,  at 
the  officer;  she  evidently  had  heard  nothing  of  his 
talk. 

"  Excuse  me  a  moment,  June,"  said  Mayhew;  "  I 
have  a  little  business  with  this  gentleman." 

He  rose  and  followed  Mr.  Jackman  toward  the  car 
door. 

"  I  don't  want  the  lady  disturbed,"  he  explained. 
"  Now,  sir,  I'll  talk  fast.  You  know  me  well,  don't 
you,  and  have  known  me  for  years?  " 


IIO  AN   ESCAPE 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Mayhew;  and  I  trust  you 
will " 

"  Am  I  the  kind  of  person  that  you  are  in  the 
habit  of  detaining  on  an  irresponsible  telegram?" 

"  Why,  no,  Mr.  Mayhew.  We  have  to  be  very 
careful  of  taking  such  risks;  but  it  was  known  here 
that  you  were  to  marry  Mr.  Gregory's  daughter,  and 
the  telegram  comes  from  him;  so  you  see " 

"It  does  not  come  from  him!"  He  spoke  with 
assured  sternness  and  positiveness.  "  It  is  a  base  fabri- 
cation, the  forgery  of  a  worthless  clerk  whom  I  dis- 
charged a  few  weeks  ago.  He  had  the  presumption  to 
seek  the  hand  of  that  lady,  who  is  now  my  wife.  He 
has  done  this  out  of  revenge,  to  embarrass  and  annoy 
us  both  on  our  wedding  journey.  He  would  not  dare 
to  return  to  Bardwell  if  I  were  there,  and  I  shall  not 
find  him  there  when  I  return.  Mr.  Gregory  to  send 
such  a  thing,  indeed!  Why,  less  than  two  hours  ago 
I  took  his  daughter  yonder  from  his  house,  with  the 
congratulations  of  himself  and  his  wife." 

The  officer  hesitated. 

"  Is  it  Ernest  Mulford  that  you  mean,  sir?  " 

"  Yes.  That  rascal  robbed  me,  and  now  tries  to 
annoy  and  humiliate  me  and  mine." 

"  We  heard  something  of  his  conduct,  sir." 

"  You'll  detain  us  at  your  peril,  Mr.  Jackman.  You 
know  that  you  are  acting  without  authority,  and  assum- 
ing all  the  risk;  and  while  ordinarily  I  would  cheerfully 
comply  with  any  reasonable  request  from  an  officer  of 
the  law,  yet  in  such  a  case  as  this,  where  malice  and 
hatred  are  trying  to  make  you  their  tool  to  injure  me, 
and  at  such  a  time,  I  declare  to  you  that  I  will  not  go 
with  you  without  a  warrant.  Short  of  that,  you  will 
have  to  use  physical  force;  and  I  give  you  notice  that 
if  you  do,  I  shall  hold  you  responsible,  both  civilly  and 
criminally,  for  assault  and  false  imprisonment." 

The  voice  of  the  conductor  was  heard:  "  All  aboard!  " 

The  officer  looked  as  though  he  were  not  quite  satis- 


AN    ESCAPE  III 

fied;  but  Mr.  Mayhew's  bold  front  and  defiant  words 
had  produced  their  effect. 

"I  don't  want  to  burn  my  fingers,"  he  said.  "I 
guess  I'd  better  not  meddle  with  this  thing." 

"  You'll  be  wise  if  you  don't,"  said  the  merchant, 
significantly.  "  Good  evening,  sir." 

The  engine-bell  rang  sharply.  The  train  began  to 
move.  Mr.  Jackman  hastened  to  the  platform  and 
jumped  off. 

Mayhew  drew  a  long  breath.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow  with  a  silk 
handkerchief. 

"A  close  call!  "  he  thought.  "  I  wonder  who's  at 
the  bottom  of  it.  Phebe,  I  suppose;  I  was  afraid  she'd 
show  her  claws  at  the  last  moment.  Well,  this  settles 
one  thing.  I  meant  to  stop  over  in  New  York  to- 
morrow, day  and  night,  but  I  shan't  dare  to  now.  An 
ocean  steamer  is  my  only  safety  now.  Rather  a  rude 
honeymoon  for  the  girl,  but  it  can't  be  helped. " 

The  train  was  under  full  headway  again,  when  he 
resumed  his  seat  by  his  bride.  She  turned  her  face  to 
him.  There  was  a  change  there;  something  in  her 
looks  that  startled  him. 

"  June,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Who  was  that  man?" 

Her  voice  was  calm;  but  it  was  such  a  tone  as  May- 
hew  had  never  heard  before. 

"  His  name  is  Jackman." 

"  Is  he  a  police  officer?" 

The  powerful  suppression  of  all  emotion  that  he  had 
shown  before  the  officer  failed  him  under  her  clear  eye 
and  direct  questioning.  He  stammered  and  prevari- 
cated. 

"  Why,  yes  —  he  was  once,  I  think;  but  I —  " 

"  What  was  his  business  with  you?" 

"  Come  now,  June,  don't  allow  yourself  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  a  trifle.  I  didn't  mean  to  leave  you  so  long; 
but  this  is  the  last  call  of  business  that  I  shall  have 


112  IN    SWIFT   PURSUIT 

before  we  get  home  again.      So,  dearest  wife,  let  us 
dismiss  all  care  and  give  ourselves  to  happiness." 
"  Why  did  he  not  arrest  you,  as  he  wished  to?" 
He  clutched  the  back  of  the  seat  with  both  hands, 
and  stared  at  her.     Tightly  grasped  in  her  own  hand, 
she  held  the  tell-tale  telegram  up  before  his  eyes.     He 
had  dropped  it  on  the  floor  when  he  walked  away  with 
the  officer. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

IN  SWIFT  PURSUIT. 

ERNEST  MULFORD  sprang  up,  and  saw  his  uncle  hold- 
ing out  a  telegram,  while  his  face  was  the  picture  of 
despair.  He  snatched  and  read  it. 

RANDOLPH,  SEPT.  18,  1877  — 10:15  P-  M- 
Emmanuel  Gregory,  Bardwell: 

Can't  take  risk;  no  warrant.  Mayhew  explains. 
They  have  gone  with  train.  Was  dispatch  yours? 

ABEL  JACKMAN. 

"  I  waited  at  the  station  after  sending  my  message, " 
Mr.  Gregory  despondently  explained,  "  and  this  is 
what  we  got;  you  see  how  it  is.  That  powerful  scoun- 
drel knows  everybody,  and  he  has  bluffed  off  the 
police,  some  way.  Notice  how  this  dispatch  asks  if 
mine  was  genuine!  I  see  how  it  is  at  once;  he  has 
made  the  police  believe  it  a  hoax." 

"  Well  —  didn't  you  telegraph  the  police  at  Beaver- 
ton?"  Ernest  impatiently  asked. 

"  No;  why  should  I  ?  It  would  only  be  a  farce.  Such 
a  man  would  defy  arrest  at  Beaverton  as  easily  as  he 
has  at  Randolph." 

"  It  is  just  as  I  said,"  put  in  Dr.  Eldridge;  "  you've 
got  to  wait  for  his  return.  It  is  sad,  indeed,  to  think 
of  poor  June,  and  the  heart-breaking  news  that  will 


IN   SWIFT    PURSUIT  113 

await  her  here  on  her  completing  her  bridal  tour;  but 
there's  no  help  for  it.  It  is  the  best  we  can  do. " 

No  person  of  Ernest  Mulford's  acquaintance,  up  to 
that  time,  had  ever  heard  an  oath  from  his  lips.  Those 
who  were  about  him  heard  one  then,  so  vehement  that 
they  were  startled. 

"  By  God,"  it  is  not  all  we  can  do  !  I  will  overtake 
that  man  this  very  night,  and  take  June  from  him;  I'll 
doit,  or  I'll  die!" 

"Here's  the  coffee,  Erny,"  said  tearful  Mrs.  Gregory. 
"  But  you  won't  want  it." 

"  I  do  want  it,  Aunty;  it's  just  what  I  need.  I  will 
take  three  minutes  to  drink  it;"  and  he  began  to  brace 
himself  with  the  hot,  fragrant  Mocha. 

"  Doctor,"  he  asked,  "  that's  your  horse  and  buggy 
that  uncle  has  been  using,  isn't  it?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Uncle,  take  it. and  go  like  lightning  to  Mr.  Gar- 
land, the  superintendent  of  this  division  of  the  road. 
He'll  be  at  his  house  at  this  hour,  I  suppose.  Bring 
him  here;  tell  him  all  about  this  villainy  on  the  way, 
and  then  I  will  explain  to  him  what  I  want.  Go,  and 
return  quickly.  I  tell  you  there  is  hope  yet." 

"  O,  bless  you,  Erny!  "  said  Mrs.  Gregory. 

Her  husband  put  on  his  hat  and  was  leaving  the 
room,  when  a  white,  scared  face  was  thrust  in,  and  a 
woman's  voice  exclaimed  in  a  painful  shriek: 

"  O,  Doctor!  O,  Doctor  Eldridge!  Come  quick! 
She'll  die  before  you  can  get  there!  " 

"  Well,  what  the  devil  is  the  matter  now?  "  the  doc- 
tor asked,  with  professional  brusqueness. 

The  frightened  woman,  who  looked  and  was  dressed 
like  a  servant,  was  in  a  half-fainting  condition,  and 
hardly  able  to  make  herself  understood.  The  doctor 
went  to  her,  and,  by  vigorous  questions  and  a  shake  or 
two  of  her  shoulders,  succeeded  in  learning  what  was 
the  trouble. 

A  Sharp  Night's  Work  S 


114  IN   SWIFT   PURSUIT 

"  It  is  a  serious  matter,"  he  said,  in  returning  to 
Ernest  and  his  uncle.  ,  "  Indeed,  it  may  be  a  matter  of 
life  and  death.  I  shall  have  to  use  my  horse  and 
buggy  myself." 

"  You  can't  have  them,"  Ernest  said,  decidedly.  "  A 
matter  of  life  and  death,  do  you  say,  Doctor?  Here  is 
something  more  than  a  small  question  of  mere  life  and 
death.  It  concerns  a  woman's  honor;  it  concerns  the 
apprehension  of  a  great  scoundrel;  it  concerns  the  hap- 
piness or  misery  of  herself,  of  me,  of  both  of  you, 
uncle  and  aunt,  for  our  lifetimes.  Do  not  talk  to  me 
of  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Uncle,  take  the  horse 
and  buggy,  and  bring  Mr.  Garland  here  quickly." 

Long  afterward  the  time  came  when  the  doctor  could 
calmly  review  the  stirring,  breathless  incidents  of  that 
night.  He  said  that  Ernest  Mulford  seemed  to  him,  in 
that  hour,  like  a  dictator  giving  his  orders.  He  spoke 
with  the  authority  of  absolute  command. 

"And  I  obeyed  him,  just  as  others  did,"  he  said, 
"  and  gave  up  my  horse  and  buggy,  though  I  had 
reason  to  think,  from  what  I  had  just  heard,  that  my 
call  was  from  a  woman  dying,  if  not  actually  dead. " 

So  much  dispatch  did  Mr.  Gregory  make  that  in  less 
than  ten  minutes  Superintendent  Garland  was  in  the 
parlor. 

He  was  a  man  of  business;  he  was  all  business  — 
accustomed  daily  to  deal  with  the  great  and  instant 
problems  of  railroad  traffic  and  travel,  and  to  dispose 
of  them  at  a  word. 

"  Mr.  Gregory  has  told  me  all  that  has  happened," 
he  said,  in  a  voice  like  the  crack  of  a  pistol.  "  I  under- 
stand the  situation  perfectly.  What  do  you  want?" 

"  A  special  engine  to  catch  the  criminal,"  said  Ernest. 

"  It  will  cost  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  said  the 
superintendent. 

"  I'll  pay  it,"  Mr.  Gregory  shouted.  But  Ernest  had 
already  taken  out  his  wallet  and  counted  out  the  amount. 


IN   SWIFT   PURSUIT  115 

The  superintendent  hastily  recounted  the  bills  and 
put  them  away.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  You  have  a  chance,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  slim  one  — 
and  yet  it  is  worth  taking.  There  is  an  up-grade  from 
Randolph  to  Beaverton]  that  train  is  unusually  heavy 
to-night;  it  won't  make  schedule  time  into  twenty 
minutes  or  more.  It  is  now  twenty  minutes  before 
eleven.  I  can  get  you  started  in  ten  minutes,  with  an 
engineer  who  will  do  it  if  it  can  be  done.  You'll  have 
sixty  minutes  to  make  about  eighty  miles;  for  if  you 
make  Beaverton  by  twelve,  you'll  overhaul  him.  But 
there  is  no  time  for  affidavits,  nor  for  getting  warrants, 
nor  deputy  sheriffs.  You  must  start  now,  and  alone. 
Will  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ernest.     "  Come!  " 

Mr.  Gregory  and  his  wife  followed  him  to  the  door, 
both  crying  and  bidding  him  God-speed.  He  took 
his  seat  in  the  buggy  with  the  superintendent,  and 
they  drove  under  the  whip  to  the  station. 

Arrived  there,  the  orders  of  the  superintendent  flew 
right  and  left,  and  the  yards  and  buildings  were  astir 
with  life.  A  telegram  went  down  the  road  to  every 
station  as  far  as  Beaverton,  giving  warning  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  special,  and  ordering  the  track  to  be  cleared. 
An  engine  and  tender  steamed  up  to  the  station. 

"  All  ready,  Burt?  "  the  superintendent  sang  out  to 
the  engineer,  a  thin,  brown-faced  young  fellow,  in  shirt 
sleeves  and  overalls,  who  leaned  from  the  cab  window, 
with  his  hand  on  the  lever. 

"All  ready,  sir." 

"  Make  the  very  best  time  to  Beaverton  that  you 
can.  The  best  time,  mark!  The  track  is  clear;  see 
what  you  can  do  with  this  engine  that  you  brag  so 
much  about.  Good  by,  Mr.  Mulford;  if  you  don't 
overtake  him  at  Beaverton,  stop  there  and  get  the  road 
cleared  further.  I'll  telegraph  to  help  you.  Good 
luck  to  you!  " 

Ernest  sprang  into  the  cab  and  took  the  seat  offered 


Il6  TOO    LATE 

him.  The  engine  started.  Within  five  minutes  it  was 
flying  along  at  much  less  than  a  mile  a  minute.  The 
spirit  of  Ernest  Mulford  rose.  Hope  swelled  within 
him.  The  old  refrain  rose  in  his  ears  —  "  In  time,  in 
time!  —  kind  God,  in  time!  " 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

TOO  LATE. 

EVEN  the  fierce  joy  and  exultation  of  Ernest  Mul- 
ford's  unconquerable  spirit  were  hardly  sufficient  to 
hold  him  up  against  the  apparent  danger  of  this  wild 
night-ride.  Those  dangers  were  more  apparent  than 
real;  and  yet,  he  who  is  borne  upon  a  locomotive  with 
only  a  tender  following,  over  the  rails  at  night,  at  a 
speed  of  much  less  than  a  minute  to  each  mile — only 
such  a  one,  we  say,  can  understand  his  situation  at  this 
time. 

He  sat  on  the  narrow  seat  by  the  window  at  the  rear 
of  the  cab,  his  hand  grasping  the  bell-cord.  So  fierce 
was  the  speed,  so  rapid  the  consumption  of  coal  as  it 
was  continually  shoveled  into  the  glowing  furnace,  that 
the  fireman  was  kept  constantly  busy,  and  Ernest  had 
volunteered  to  take  charge  of  the  bell.  His  eye  was 
fixed  on  Burt,  the  engineer,  as  he  stood  with  one  hand 
on  the  lever,  peering  out  in  front;  stooping  occasionally 
to  examine  the  gauge,  or  turn  a  stop-cock.  Now  and 
then  he  sent  out  a  deep  whisper,  "  Ring!  "  With  the 
voice  of  the  bell  answering  to  his  pull,  Ernest  would 
hear  the  loud  blast  of  the  whistle,  and  in  a  twinkling 
the  road-crossing  would  be  passed.  There  was  no 
stop,  no  slackening  of  speed;  with  a  rush  and  a  roar 
the  engine  swept  on,  making  such  a  noise  that  at  last 
the  men  in  the  cab  had  to  shout  to  each  other  to  be 
heard. 

So  tremendous  became  the  speed,  that  the  engine 
seemed  to  leap  up  from  the  track,  and  did  really  sway 


TOO    LATE  117 

from  side  to  side,  so  that  Ernest  had  to  hold  on  by  the 
railing  of  the  seat. 

A  multitude  of  lights  flashed  out  far  ahead.  "  Ran- 
dolph! "  the  engineer  shouted,  as  he  let  off  the  steam 
in  a  prolonged  shriek.  The  engine  dashed  into  town; 
it  passed  the  station  in  a  blaze  of  light,  where,  learning 
of  the  special  on  the  way,  a  crowd  of  railroad  employes 
and  idlers  lined  the  platform.  As  it  tore  past  like  a 
mad  thing,  the  face  of  Burt  at  the  lever  was  recognized, 
and  he  heard  the  shout  that  greeted  him  as  the  station 
was  left  far  behind. 

The  miles  sped  past.  The  engineer  was  alert,  vigi- 
lant, but  silent.  The  fireman  was  busy  at  the  coal, 
Ernest,  keeping  his  eye  on  Burt,  and  unmindful  of  the 
oft-recurring  bell-signal,  had  little  time  or  thought  for 
speech;  but  once,  some  distance  out  of  Randolph,  he 
leaned  forward  and  yelled: 

"  Burt!  —  shall  we  make  it?  " 

The  engineer  never  turned  his  head;  but  above  the 
awful  clamor  and  noise  the  answer  distinctly  came: 

"  Yes!  At  this  rate  we  shall  reach  Beaverton  at 
eleven-fifty.  I'll  try  and  signal  the  train  as  we  get 
near." 

The  whole  ride  to  Ernest  was  like  a  nightmare;  in 
the  calm  and  peaceful  nights  that,  later  on,  he  knew, 
his  sleep  was  often  disturbed  by  flying  phantoms  with 
fiery  eyes  and  flaming  breath,  born  of  the  experience 
of  this  one  night. 

On,  on  they  went.  If  ever  on  that  memorable  night 
Ernest  ceased  to  think  of  the  peril  of  June,  it  was  while 
he  was  thus  borne  along  so  swiftly  that  even  thought 
itself  seemed  left  behind.  Once  the  fireman,  black  and 
sooty  from  his  labors,  paused  long  enough  to  shout  in 
his  ear: 

"  You'll  want  to  tell  your  children  about  this  some 
day.  No  man  before  ever  rode  so  fast  on  this  road." 

The  lean,  brown  hand  of  the  engineer  reached  back 
and  pinched  his  knee. 


Il8  TOO    LATE 

"Look  ahead!"  he  heard  the  cheery  shout,  rising 
above  the  noise.  "  There  are  the  lights  of  Beaverton, 
three  miles  off;  I'll  signal." 

A  succession  of  sharp  blasts  from  the  whistle  followed. 
Ernest  was  eagerly  looking  out  ahead  to  see  the  rear 
lights  of  the  train  they  were  following,  when  a  yell  from 
the  engineer  startled  him. 

"  Save  yourselves!  —  she's  going!  " 

The  steam  was  released  with  a  deafening  roar;  the 
motion  was  promptly  reversed.  The  fireman,  instantly 
comprehending  the  danger,  leaped  from  the  cab.  His 
heels  struck  in  the  soft  turf  of  the  embankment  over 
which  engine  and  tender  toppled  together;  two  som- 
ersaults followed,  and  he  landed  on  his  back  at  the 
bottom  of  the  bank,  much  shaken  up,  but  not  other- 
wise injured. 

At  the  cry,  and  the  toppling  of  the  engine  to  the 
right,  Ernest  thrust  himself  through  the  window  at  his 
elbow.  He  went  over  with  the  huge  mass,  but  above 
it,  hanging  on  to  the  window  aperture  by  his  hands. 
He  was  jarred  and  shaken,  but  released  his  hold  in  time 
to  escape  the  steam. 

Struggling  away  from  the  wreck  as  it  lay  overturned, 
the  ponderous  wheels  spinning  in  the  air,  Ernest  was 
met  by  the  fireman  as  he  ran  round  the  dismantled 
smoke-stack  and  came  to  the  upper  side. 

"  Where's  Burt?"  he  screamed. 

They  searched  for  him.  They  saw  his  boots  sticking 
out  from  the  ruins  of  the  cab.  The  axe  was  where  it 
could  be  reached,  protruding  from  the  timbers  and 
iron,  and  the  fireman  quickly  chopped  him  free. 

Poor  Burt!  He  could  not  rise.  He  had  inhaled 
the  scalding  steam,  and  was  near  to  death.  They 
dragged  him  out  and  laid  him  on  the  grass;  he  smiled 
to  recognize  them.  With  his  mouth  and  throat  all  raw 
his  poor  remnant  of  breath  and  speech  were  freely 
given  to  the  corporation  that  employed  him. 

"  The  flange  of  one   of  the  drivers  broke  and  flew 


BAFFLED  1 19 

off,"  he  whispered.  "  I  saw  it,  and  knew  we  must  go. 
Tell  my  poor  wife " 

His  brave  spirit  fled  with  the  thought  unuttered.  He 
died  as  his  class  are  ever  ready  to  die,  at  the  perilous 
post  of  duty. 

It  was  no  time  for  words  nor  explanations.  Leaving 
the  fireman  kneeling  by  his  dead  friend,  Ernest  ran  up 
the  embankment,  and  along  the  track.  The  lights  of 
Beaverton  twinkled  less  than  a  mile  before  him.  He 
ran  with  all  the  energy  of  despair.  Putting  into  play 
all  the  poor  reserve  of  wind,  nerve  and  muscle  that 
were  left  him,  he  hurried  on.  Nearer,  nearer  he  came; 
he  saw  the  lanterns  at  the  rear  of  the  train.  He  redoubled 
his  efforts.  He  heard  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  the  deep 
puff  of  the  engine;  he  raised  his  voice  in  a  shout  that 
was  not  heard,  and  would  not  have  been  heeded  had  it 
been  heard.  One  hundred  yards  from  him  the  train 
pulled  out,  and  with  increasing  speed  left  Beaverton 
behind. 

"  Merciful  God,  let  me  die!" 

It  was  the  frantic  pursuer's  despairing  appeal,  as  he 
sank  down. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

BAFFLED ! 

WESTON  MAYHEW  looked  in  blank  consternation  at 
the  telegram  that  June  held  up  before  his  eyes.  He 
clutched  at  it,  but  she  was  too  quick  for  him.  Hold- 
ing her  hands  as  far  away  from  him  as  possible,  she 
opened  her  hand-bag,  thrust  in  the  paper,  and  snapped 
the  catch  together.  And  then  she  faced  him.  It  was 
a  rigid,  white  face — like  a  beautiful  stern  image  of 
mingled  despair  and  resolution. 

His  face  was  stern,  now,  and  he  spoke  through  his 
teeth,  in  a  hoarse  whisper: 

"  Give  me  that  paper. " 


I2O  BAFFLED 

"I  shall  not." 

She  grasped  the  bag  tightly  in  both  hands;  she 
turned  her  back  partly  to  him,  to  keep  it  from  him. 

"  June,  you  are  acting  very  wayward  and  silly.  That 
dispatch  belongs  to  me;  I  want  it." 

"  It  belongs  to  the  policeman  who  ought  to  have 
arrested  you.  If  you  get  it,  you  will  have  to  take  it 
from  me  by  force.  And  if  you  do  that  I  will  scream, 
and  appeal  to  the  passengers. " 

He  saw  with  dismay  that  she  was  roused,  almost 
desperate;  in  such  a  frame  of  mind  as  he  had  not 
thought  possible  for  this  young,  timid  girl.  He  changed 
his  tactics. 

"  I  merely  want  to  destroy  it,  June.  It  is  carrying 
the  joke  too  far  to  have  that  absurd  thing  in  our 
possession." 

"It  is  no  joke." 

"  Why,  you  foolish  girl,  you  don't  believe  a  word  of 
that  lying  message?" 

"  I  believe  every  word  of  it.  My  father's  name  is 
on  it. " 

"  Your  father  never  saw  it,  nor  authorized  it.  The 
whole  thing  is  a  clumsy  imposition;  an  attempt,  I 
believe,  of  that  scamp  Mulford  to  annoy  us  both. " 

She  was  silent. 

"  I  assure  you  that  the  statement  of  that  message 
about  me  is  a  falsehood.  You  are  my  wife,  the  only 
wife  I  have  ever  had.  Look  at  me,  and  say  that  you 
believe  me!" 

She  did  look  at  him.  He  read  his  doom  in  her 
steadfast  eyes. 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  believe  you!  You  are  lying  to  me 
now,  as  you  have  been  lying  for  months.  This 
explains  some  things  about  your  conduct  that  I  could 
not  understand.  You  would  have  this  wretched  day 
hastened;  you  would  keep  it  quiet  till  almost  the  last 
moment.  You  are  a  villain,  sir!  —  and  I  —  I  —  O 
God! " 


BAFFLED  121 

She  could  not  sustain  the  stress  of  desperate  excite- 
ment that  was  upon  her.  She  broke  down,  and 
sobbed  in  her  handkerchief. 

Weston  Mayhew  sat  back  in  the  seat,  crushed  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  collected  himself  for  the  strug- 
gle that  was  before  him.  Absorbing  as  had  been  his 
pursuit  of  this  woman,  it  was  not  so  overmastering  as 
his  determination  to  hold  her,  to  carry  her  off,  now 
that  she  seemed  slipping  from  his  grasp. 

The  low  sound  of  her  sobs  reached  the  ears  of  some 
of  the  passengers,  and  inquiring  eyes  were  turned  that 
way.  She  threw  a  veil  over  her  face. 

Mayhew  leaned  over  to  her. 

"  Speak  low,"  he  said.  "  You  do  not  want  to  attract 
attention,  just  now. " 

"  I  shall  before  long,"  she  replied,  her  voice  shaking 
with  grief  and  agitation. 

"  Shall  you,  indeed!     We'll  see  about  that." 

The  devil  within  the  man  had  begun  to  roar  again. 

"  We'll  have  this  thing  understood  at  once,  June.  I 
have  made  my  explanation  to  you  of  that  annoyance 
back  at  Randolph.  I  am  your  husband;  I  am  entitled 
to  be  believed.  You  say  you  don't  believe  me.  Very 
well;  I  regret  that;  but  it  affects  only  your  own  peace 
of  mind.  It  will  do  you  no  good;  you  will  go  right 
on  with  me  to  New  York  —  and  further.  To-morrow 
you  won't  remember  anything  about  it." 

"  To-morrow!"  she  moaned.  "  To-morrow!  O,  man, 
have  pity  on  me!  Let  me  go;  I  will  go  back  to  Bard- 
well  alone.  It  is  worse  than  death  to  stay  with  you; 
it  is  misery,  shame  and  disgrace." 

"As  I  just  said,"  Mr.  Mayhew  coolly  remarked,"  we 
will  go  right  on  to  New  York.  We  reach  there  about 
the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  I  was  expecting,  my  dear 
June,  that  we  would  remain  a  few  days  in  the  metrop- 
olis; I  want  to  enjoy  your  charming  society  at  one  of 
its  palatial  hotels,  as  well  as  to  show  you  some  of  the 


122  BAFFLED 

sights;  but  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  take  passage 
at  once  for  Havre. " 

"  For  Havre?"  she  whispered. 

11  Yes,  while  this  story  abut  me  is  a  malicious  fabri- 
cation, for  which  I  will  make  somebody  suffer  when  we 
return  to  Bardwell,  I  don't  choose  to  be  annoyed  by 
it  while  on  my  bridal  trip.  I  meant  from  the  first  to 
make  that  trip  a  long  one;  and  now,  since  this  scoun- 
drel, Ernest  Mulford,  or  some  other,  has  deliberately 
set  about  trying  to  annoy  and  embarrass  us  in  the  midst 
of  our  happiness,  and  might  subject  us  to  all  kinds  of 
inconvenience  in  New  York  with  these  lying  telegrams, 
I  have  decided  to  put  the  ocean  between  us  and  these 
absurd  rumors.  They  will  die  a  natural  death  long 
before  we  return. " 

She  tore  the  veil  from  her  face,  and  confronted  him 
with  eyes  flashing  with  indignation. 

"  Sir,  this  is  infamous!  I  am  here  with  you  now 
only  by  the  basest  fraud  and  treachery;  I  will  leave 
this  car  and  you  at  the  next  station. " 

"You  will  not." 

"I  will." 

"  Ah!  You  are  my  wife;  the  law  makes  you  subject 
to  me.  I  hate  to  use  force;  if  you  compel  me,  I  must. 
You  will  keep  this  seat." 

"  I  will  alarm  the  passengers.  I  will  appeal  to  the 
conductor!  Don't  touch  me,  sir;  I  will  scream." 

Mr.  Mayhew  gave  an  irritating  little  chuckle. 

"  My  dear  little  June,  much  as  I  admire  your  beauty, 
I  hate  to  see  you  in  such  a  passion.  Scream,  will  you  ? — 
call  on  the  conductor? — ask  the  passengers  to  take  you 
away  from  your  husband?  I  don't  wish  you  to  do  so, 
because  my  explanation  would  be  unpleasant,  and  the 
incident  an  awkward  one;  but  you  are  perfectly  at 
liberty  to  try  it,  for  all  the  good  it  is  likely  to  do  you. 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  conductor,  and  I  know 
several  of  the  passengers  in  this  car.  How  many  of 
them  do  you  know?  I  should  say,  'I  fear  that  my 


BAFFLED  123 

poor  little  wife  is  overcome  and  hysterical  with  excite- 
ment; I  hope  it  may  not  affect  her  brain.'  And  I 
would  sit  by  you  with  my  arm  about  your  waist  — 
thus — "  and  despite  her  struggles  he  rudely  embraced 
her,  "  and  then  we  would  see  who  would  interfere." 

There  was  silence  after  this  rejoinder.  Mr.  Mayhew, 
sitting  with  his  arm  about  June,  thought  that  he  had 
conquered  her.  He  little  knew  the  spirit  that  burns 
within  the  weak  frame  of  a  woman. 

The  train  sped  on;  the  whistle  sounded  for  Beaver- 
ton,  and  the  cars  rolled  into  the  station,  fifteen  minutes 
late. 

Many  passengers  were  to  alight  here;  some  were  to 
get  on.  On  the  station  platform  there  was  quite  a 
crowd,  and  much  stir  and  bustle.  The  anxiety  of 
those  who  were  about  to  take  the  train  to  do  so  before 
those  leaving  it  had  got  off,  caused  the  usual  confusion. 
The  car  platforms  and  aisles  were  full  of  people  strug- 
gling to  get  on  and  off,  and  two  or  three  lively  news- 
boys selling  papers  increased  the  noise  and  move- 
ment. 

One  of  these  boys,  crying  his  papers,  passed  by  Mr. 
Mayhew. 

"  I'll  take  one,"  he  said,  having  it  in  his  mind  that 
he  would  look  for  the  departure  of  the  ocean  steamers. 

To  reach  some  loose  change  in  his  pocket,  he  found 
it  convenient  to  rise.  To  examine  it,  it  became  neces- 
sary to  step  out  into  the  aisle,  where  he  could  hold  the 
silver  up  to  the  hanging  lamp. 

He  felt  some  one  brush  against  his  back.  This  in- 
cident did  not  attract  his  attention  at  the  instant,  as 
people  were  still  coming  and  going  in  the  car. 

He  took  his  paper,  received  his  change  from  the 
boy,  and  turned  to  take  his  seat. 

The  seat  was  vacant.     June  was  gone! 

He  looked  toward  the  nearest  door.  Very  near  it 
lie  saw  the  familiar  blue  feathers  in  her  hat.  At  least 
ten  people  were  between. 


124  BAFFLED 

"  Stop  that  woman!  "  he  cried.  "  The  woman  with 
the  round  hat  and  blue  feathers!  Stop  her!  " 

His  cry  startled  the  people,  and,  for  the  moment, 
added  to  the  confusion.  They  looked  round  to  see 
who  was  making  the  outcry,  and  their  feet  were  stayed 
an  instant.  Continuing  to  cry,  "  Stop  her — stop  her!  " 
Weston  Mayhew  crowded  and  forced  his  way  with  all 
the  speed  possible  past  the  people  who  blocked  the 
aisle,  and  reached  the  car  platform.  June  had  disap- 
peared. 

He  jumped  down  and  ran  frantically  through  the 
crowd.  He  ran  this  way  and  that,  getting  himself 
cursed  and  almost  collared  for  his  rudeness.  He  looked 
for  June  in  the  crowd,  in  the  waiting-rooms^  in  every 
hack  and  omnibus.  She  was  not  there. 

He  hurriedly  described  her  dress  to  the  policeman 
on  duty. 

"  Didn't  see  no  such  person,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

He  rushed  along  the  train  to  where  the  baggage  was 
fast  being  bumped  out  and  in.  The  conductor  stood 
by  with  his  lantern. 

"  Give  me  ten  minutes  to  find  my  wife,  Mr.  Sayles," 
the  breathless  searcher  exclaimed.  "  I'm  afraid  she's 
out  of  her  head.  She  got  off  the  train  and  I  can't  find 
her." 

"  We  shall  be  here  about  ten  minutes  more,"  said  the 
conductor. 

Quite  ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Sayles  walked  from  the 
ticket  agent's  office  over  to  the  train.  The  hacks  and 
omnibuses  and  arriving  passengers,  who  walked  to 
their  homes,  had  departed;  the  seats  of  the  waiting 
train  were  almost  filled;  the  crowd  on  the  platform  was 
thinned. 

Mr.  Mayhew  came  up  again,  strongly  agitated  and 
excited. 

"  I  can't  find  her,  conductor. " 

"  Strange!     Have  you  searched  the  train?" 


LIGHT    BREAKS  125 

"  Yes;  every  car;  baggage-cars,  to©.  She's  certainly 
not  aboard." 

"  Well,  I'm  sorry;  but  you  can't  miss  finding  her 
here,  somewhere." 

"  Can't  you  stop  five  minutes  more?" 

"  Impossible;  we  are  more  than  half  an  hour  behind; 
we  have  time  to  make.  Want  your  baggage?" 

"  No,"  said  Mayhew.  He  had  thought  of  that  ques- 
tion, and  settled  it,  as  he  excitedly  pursued  his  search. 
"  It'll  be  safe  in  New  York;  I  shall  come  right  on  with 
her  when  I  find  her." 

"All  aboard!"  the  conductor  shouted!  The  train 
pulled  away  and  disappeared,  Mr.  Mayhew  standing 
moodily  by,  and  Ernest  Mulford,  a  stone's  throw  back, 
sank  exhausted,  and  cried  out  in  his  distress. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LIGHT  BREAKS. 

IT  was  about  two  o'clock  of  the  morning  of  Septem- 
ber 1 9th.  At  the  Ashley  House,  the  first  hotel  in 
Beaverton,  and  a  comfortable  inn  of  the  country  kind, 
something  unusual  seemed  to  have  happened.  The 
office  was  lighted  and  the  proprietor  was  sitting  up. 
He  had  sent  his  help  to  bed  and  was  sleepily  trying  to 
fulfill  an  unusual  demand  upon  his  house,  which  he 
foresaw  would  become  a  matter  of  profit. 

Mr.  Emmett  Ashley  was  a  young  man  of  about 
twenty-seven,  rotund,  round-faced,  cheerful  in  talk  and 
demeanor,  and  with  good  business  capacity;  in  brief, 
was  excellently  equipped  to  be  just  what  he  was  —  the 
successful  landlord  of  a  good  country  inn.  There  was 
that  about  the  house  itself,  its  ways,  its  table,  and 
especially  its  host,  that  brought  traveling  people  to  it, 
and  gave  it  a  name.  On  rare  occasions,  such  as  this, 
Mr.  Ashley  could  deprive  himself  of  sleep  in  the  inter- 
est of  his  business,  but  he  did  not  like  to  do  so,  and 


126  LIGHT    BREAKS 

the  occasion  must  be  a  large  one  to  persuade  him  to 
forego  even  a  part  of  that  daily  luxury. 

The  house  was  silent;  the  town  was  still.  Mr.  Ash- 
ley yawned,  stretched,  walked  about  the  room,  whistled, 
slapped  his  hands,  and  resorted  to  some  other  expedi- 
ents known  to  sleepy  people  who  wish  to  stay  awake. 
He  found  it  rather  hard  work. 

"  Plague  take  such  unreasonable  people  who  put  off 
having  trouble  till  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  keep 
decent  people  awake  to  attend  to  'em.  I'm  going  to 
lie  down  any  way;  they'll  find  me  here  when  they 
come." 

He  threw  himself  down  on  a  settee,  and  was  speedily 
unconscious  of  the  troubles  of  hotel-keeping.  The 
sound  of  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  office  door 
awakened  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  a  man 
advancing  to  the  counter. 

"  When  does  the  next  train  leave  here  for  New  York?" 
the  visitor  asked. 

"Nine-thirty." 

The  man  looked  at  the  clock. 

"  More  than  seven  hours  yet/'  he  sighed,  and  sank 
wearily  into  a  chair. 

Mr.  Ashley  thought  he  recognized  the  voice.  He 
stood  up  and  looked  at  the  man  in  the  chair.  His  atti- 
tude and  appearance  were  those  of  deep  dejection. 
His  chin  was  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
and  his  hat  was  drawn  down  on  his  face. 

Mr.  Ashby  gave  a  soft  little  exclamation  of  astonish- 
ment, and  walking  round  the  counter,  bestowed  a  re- 
sounding whack  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  other.  The 
sitter  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Well,  Ernest  —  how  are  you?"  the  landlord  asked, 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Why,  it's  Emmett!"  exclaimed  the  other,  unex- 
pectedly finding  himself  interested  in  what  was  going 
on  about  him.  "  Do  you  keep  this  house?" 


LIGHT   BREAKS  \2J 

"  Yes,  my  son,  I  do  that,  and  have  for  more  than  a 
year.  Hadn't  you  heard  of  it?" 

"  I  knew  there  was  somebody  of  the  name  here,  but 
never  thought  it  could  be  my  old  schoolmate." 

They  shook  hands  and  sat  down.  Then  Mulford's 
great  grief  came  back  to  him,  and  he  became  silent 
and  moody. 

"  See  here,  now,"  said  the  landlord,  in  his  cheery 
way,  being  now  wide  awake,  "  what  are  you  in  the 
dumps  about?  Did  you  get  in  at  half-past  eleven  — 
and  if  so,  where  have  you  been  since,  and  what  do 
you  want,  anyway?  It  gives  me  the  blues  to  look  at 
you." 

"  I'm  tired  enough  to  go  to  bed,"  replied  Ernest, 
"  and  I  would,  if  there  was  any  prospect  that  I  could 
sleep;  but  I  know  I  can't.  I've  been  roaming  around 
the  streets  for  most  two  hours,  and  came  in  here  be- 
cause I  saw  a  light.  I'll  sit  here,  with  your  leave,  'till 
morning. " 

"  What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"  I've  been  chasing  up  the  biggest  scoundrel  in  the 
State  all  day,  and  just  missed  him  here  with  a  special 
engine.  I'm  bound  to  keep  after  him,  and  I  shall  go 
on  in  the  morning;  but  I've  little  hope  now.  He'll 
have  more  than  nine  hours  start. " 

"  Why  —  did  you  come  in  on  that  engine  that  ran 
over  the  bank  and  killed  the  engineer,  just  below 
here?" 

"Yes  —  and  barely  missed  the  train  here.  I  wish 
now  I  had  been  in  the  engineer's  place." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Ernest!  One  of  the  railroad  men 
came  in  here,  half  an  hour  ago,  and  told  me  of  that 
accident;  but  I  don't  think  the  news  has  got  around 
here  yet." 

Ernest  Mulford  said  nothing. 

"Who's  your  man?" 

"Weston  Mayhew." 

"WHAT!" 


128  LIGHT    BREAKS 

The  emphasis  that  Mr.  Ashley  put  upon  the  word 
made  Mulford  start  in  his  chair. 

"  Say  that  again!  " 

The  name  was  repeated. 

"  What's  he  been  doing?  " 

Ernest  looked  wearily  at  his  inquisitive  friend. 

11  You  can't  help  me,  Emmett,  in  my  distress;  so  it 
will  be  of  no  use  to  tell  you." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  can't  be  of  use  to  you?  Just 
you  start  in  and  tell  me  all  about  it,  and,  just  as  like  as 
not,  something  will  come  of  it." 

Without  the  slightest  expectation  that  anything 
could  "come  of  it"  —  but  to  pass  away^the  time,  to 
relieve  his  own  sorely-burdened  heart  by  speech,  and 
very  possibly  out  of  a  yearning  for  the  sympathy  that 
he  knew  hearty  Emmett  Ashley  would  give  him,  Ernest 
Mulford  told  him  everything,  beginning  with  his  own 
leaving  of  Bardwell,  of  which  Ashley  had  not  heard. 
The  latter  listened  intently  to  the  strange  and  exciting 
story,  and  at  its  close  uttered  a  peculiar  whistle. 

"  The  damned  scoundrel  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Have 
you  got  those  documents  with  you,  Ernest?  " 

"  Yes. " 

"  Do  you  mind  showing  them  to  me?  " 

The  package  was  handed  to  him.  He  looked  it  over 
and  returned  it. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  remarked,  "  that  you  are  pretty 
familiar  with  that  man's  writing?  " 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"  Just  step  this  way. " 

He  led  him  to  the  counter  and  pointed  to  the  open 
register.  Under  the  new  date,  "  September  iQth,'' 
he  saw  in  well-known  characters  the  name,  "  Weston 
Mayhew. " 

"Emmett!-— is  he  here?" 

"Yes." 

"And  she " 

He  stopped;  he  could  ask  no  more. 


LIGHT    BREAKS 

"  No.  But  see  here,  Ernest — get  that  wolfish  look 
off  your  face.  I  won't  have  any  shooting  or  stabbing 
in  this  house.  Promise  me  there  shall  be  no  violence, 
or  I'll  not  help  you  an  atom. 

"  I'll  do  anything  you  say,  Emmett;  but  tell  me  where 
June  is." 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know.  About  a  quarter  past 
twelve  Weston  Mayhew,  whom  I  knew  by  sight,  came 
in  after  the  other  arrivals  on  the  train  had  come  and 
gone  to  bed.  He  was  a  good  deal  excited;  said  that 
his  wife  had  been  taken  ill  and  delirious  on  the  train, 
and  had  given  him  the  slip  after  it  stopped  here.  He 
had  searched  the  train  through  and  all  about  the  station, 
and  could  find  nothing  and  hear  nothing  of  her.  He 
gave  me  fifty  dollars;  wanted  me  to  get  together  a 
dozen  men  to  help  find  her,  and  to  keep  open  till  she 
was  found,  so  that  she  might  have  all  necessary  atten- 
tion. He  said  he  should  go  on  with  her  —  must  was 
the  word  he  used  —  by  the  morning  train,  and  he 
wanted  my  help;  perhaps  he  should  want  a  doctor. 
Before  he  had  got  through  talking  he  threw  down 
another  fifty.  I  agreed,  of  course;  everything  appeared 
straight.  He  started  out  with  a  lot  of  men  that  I  got 
for  him,  to  hunt  the  town  through.  Didn't  you  come 
across  any  of  them?" 

"  As  I  roamed  through  the  streets  I  continually  met 
men  who  seemed  to  be  searching;  but  I  heard  nothing 
of  what  it  meant,  and  I  did  not  see  Mayhew.  Per- 
haps it's  just  as  well  that  I  did  not. " 

11  Why?" 

"  I  might  have  killed  him." 

"Tut,  tut,  sonny " 

"  He  ought  to  be  shot  on  sight,"  Ernest  passionately 
interrupted,  "  and  I'm  none  too  good  to  do  it!  Just 
think  of  all  I  have  told  you;  it  makes  my  blood  boil. 
I  thank  God  that  she  has  escaped  him;  the  news  you 
have  told  me  makes  me  a  happy  man,  compared  with 
A  Sharp  Night's  Work  9 


LIGHT   BREAKS 

what  I  was  when  I  came  in  here;  but  think  of  June; 
I  don't  believe  that  the  monster  lied  when  he  told  you 
that  she  was  sick  and  out  of  her  head;  the  poor  girl 
has  learned  enough  of  him  since  he  took  her  from  her 
father's  house,  only  six  hours  ago,  to  make  any  woman 
crazy.  Think  of  the  dear  girl  wandering  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  fleeing  from  that  villain,  and  trying 
in  vain  to  find  shelter  and  protection  among  strangers! 
I'll  go  at  once  to  find  her.  I  will  protect  her  and  take 
her  back  to  her  home." 

He  started  up,  and  made  for  the  door.  The  land- 
lord held  him  by  the  collar. 

"  Attend  to  me,  Ernest,"  he  said.  "  All  that  can 
possibly  be  done  to  find  her  is  being  done.  You  can 
do  nothing,  except  to  bring  on  a  collision  between 
Mayhew  and  yourself,  which  must  not  occur  just  yet. 
If  she  is  found,  she  will  be  brought  here  ;  it  will  be 
time  for  you  to  appear.  If  she  is  not  found,  I  shall 
know  what  intelligence  of  her  has  been  gained.  Of 
course,  now  that  I  have  heard  your  story  and  seen 
your  proofs,  I  am  hand  and  glove  with  you  in  bringing 
the  man  to  justice,  and  setting  June  right.  Only,  I 
don't  want  you  to  appear  yet.  The  time  has  not 
come.  Go  in  there  and  lie  down  on  the  bed.  I  will 
let  you  know  when  he  returns,  and  what  the  news  is  ; 
and  then  we  will  consult  about  what  to  do.  But  you 
must  stay  in  the  background  for  the  present. " 

Much  against  his  will,  Ernest  was  forced  into  a  little 
room  adjoining  the  office  behind  the  counter,  and  the 
door  was  closed  after  him.  He  threw  himself  on  the 
bed,  and  was  almost  instantly  asleep.  Nature  would 
assert  her  rights. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  hand  of  his  friend,  who 
had  to  shake  him  roughly  before  his  deep  slumber  was 
broken.  Ashley  was  standing  by  the  bed,  with  the 
door  closed. 

"  Is  she  found?"  Ernest  eagerly  asked. 

"  She  will  be,  very  soon.     It  is  now  six  o'clock;  a 


IN  DARKNESS   AND    DISTRESS  131 

market-gardener  who  just  came  in  met  a  woman  some 
miles  out  in  the  country  that  answers  her  description. 
They  are  hitching  up  now  to  go  after  her.  Don't  get 
up  yet ;  let  me  talk,  and  tell  you  my  plan.  I've  hit 
on  the  proper  thing  to  do." 

"  But  I  won't  stay  here.     I  tell  you ." 

"  Keep  still,  boy,  and  hear  my  plan. " 

The  stout  friend  told  his  plan. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN  DARKNESS  AND  DISTRESS. 

JUNE'S  complete  disappearance  is  naturally  and  easily 
explained.  Had  not  Mr.  Mayhew  been  so  agitated 
and  excited  in  the  first  moments  of  his  search,  that 
explanation  must  have  occurred  to  him. 

Reaching  the  car-platform  in  the  press  of  people 
struggling  to  come  and  go,  the  fugitive  glanced  from 
the  blaze  of  light  on  the  station-side  to  the  street 
opposite,  on  the  other  side  of  the  train,  and  observed 
with  that  glance  that  it  was  but  dimly  lighted  with  a 
gas-lamp  here  and  there,  and  that  hardly  anybody  was 
moving  upon  it.  Nobody  was  getting  on  or  off  on 
that  side,  and  a  sudden  impulse  came  to  her  that  safety 
lay  that  way.  She  acted  upon  it  instantly.  She  had 
reached  the  ground  and  disappeared  before  Mayhew 
was  able  to  get  to  the  car-door. 

The  determination  not  to  go  with  her  oppressor  and 
tyrant  beyond  this  station  had  been  formed  an  hour 
before.  Her  resolution  to  escape  from  the  fate  that  he 
had  coolly  portrayed  to  her  was  something  ardent, 
irresistible;  she  would  have  obeyed  it  had  it  urged  her 
through  fire  and  water.  She  was  about  to  "  make  a 
scene"  when  the  train  stopped;  to  shriek  and  cry  out 
for  help;  to  denounce  Mayhew  as  a  criminal,  and  to 
those  who  would  gather  around  upon  the  disturbance, 
to  show  the  telegram  in  confirmation  of  her  words. 


132  IN     DARKNESS    AND    DISTRESS 

That  plan  might  and  might  not  have  succeeded;  it  is 
impossible  to  say.  She  had  to  deal  with  an  experienced 
man  of  the  world,  of  smooth  and  easy  address,  and  full 
of  resources.  People  generally,  traveling  people 
especially,  always  intent  upon  their  own  affairs,  and 
anxious  to  prosecute  their  journey  without  interruption 
or  annoyance,  are  loth  to  interfere  in  others'  troubles. 
Then  Mr.  Mayhew  was  well  acquainted  with  the  con- 
ductor, and  probably  could  have  made  him  believe 
that  the  lady  was  out  of  her  head.  The  chances  are 
that  the  desperate  plan  that  June  suddenly  formed  as 
she  saw  her  companion  rise  and  go  into  the  aisle  was 
the  best  that  she  could,  under  the  circumstances,  have 
adopted.  And  whether  the  comings  and  goings  of 
that  memorable  night  were  ruled  by  mere  chance,  or 
by  a  higher  power,  it  is  certain  that  this  course  was  the 
only  one  that  could  put  it  in  the  power  of  her  heroic 
pursuer  on  the  crippled  engine  to  reach  her.  All 
unknown  to  her,  she  was  doing  just  what  he  would 
have  had  her  do. 

She  passed  rapidly  up  the  street  to  the  first  corner, 
meeting  no  one.  She  turned  the  corner,  ran  along  that 
street,  turned  another  corner  to  a  street  where  there 
was  no  light  but  the  faint  and  uncertain  rays  from  the 
windows,  and  pressed  on  till  breath  and  strength  failed 
her.  Then  she  sank  down  on  a  doorstep  and  rested. 

One  swift  thought  of  her  condition  came  to  her. 
Barely  four  hours  before  the  petted  darling  of  a  happy 
home,  the  honored  bride  of  a  great  and  wealthy  man; 
now  outcast,  wretched,  filled  with  terror,  flying  from 
the  pursuit  of  a  monster,  a  criminal,  whose  very  touch 
would  degrade  her!  Just  one  thought  like  this  she 
allowed  herself,  and  then  she  crushed  it  down  and  tried 
to  take  courage  from  the  other  thought:  "  I  am  escap- 
ing him.  I  will  find  refuge  and  shelter  somewhere,  and 
send  news  to  my  father,  and  he  will  come  and  take  me 
home." 

She  had  a  thought,  too,  for  another,  in  that  distress^ 


IN    DARKNESS    AND     DISTRESS  133 

ful,  yet  excited  hour.  She  thought  how  different  all 
this  might  have  been  had  she  listened  to  Ernest  Mul- 
ford's  suit.  But  that  thought  belonged  to  the  bygones; 
she  sighed  and  dismissed  it. 

Far  down  the  street  she  heard  the  unsteady  steps  of 
some  late  roysterer  on  his  homeward  way.  Full  of  the 
terror  inspired  by  the  thought  of  Mayhew's  pursuit, 
she  sprang  up  and  continued  her  flight.  On,  on  she 
sped,  past  the  straggling  outskirts  of  the  town,  and 
into,  the  country;  along  the  highway,  past  farmhouses 
and  cornfields,  and  once  through  a  thick,  dark  wood, 
where  the  gloom  increased  her  terrors,  redoubling  her 
pace  as  her  imagination  constantly  conjured  up  the 
sound  of  feet  or  wheels  in  pursuit.  Faint,  footsore, 
utterly  exhausted,  she  fell  helplessly  on  the  steps  of  a 
large  house  close  to  the  road.  It  was  a  country  inn, 
the  landlord  of  which  was  waiting  on  a  merry  party  in 
the  bar.  He  heard  the  noise  caused  by  the  poor  wan- 
derer stumbling  against  the  steps,  and  he  opened  the 
door.  In  the  light  that  shone  upon  her  woful  face,  she 
looked  up  to  him  for  pity  —  and  found  none. 

"  Out  of  this,  now,  you  baggage!"  the  brutal  man 
harshly  exclaimed,  with  his  foot  raised.  "  We  want  no 
tramps  or  slatterns  around  here.  Off  with  you!" 

She  rose  with  difficulty.  Some  of  the  revelers  inside 
crowded  up  and  looked  over  the  landlord's  shoulders. 
One,  a  fashionably-dressed  youth,  with  flushed  face  and 
disordered  dress,  elbowed  his  way  past. 

"Why,  she's  pretty!"  he  hiccoughed;  "  or  she  was 
once,  any  way.  Landlord,  g'way,  and  le'  me  have  her. 
Come  right  in,  my  little  dear.  Come  with  me " 

With  a  cry  of  horror,  and  with  strength  supplied  by 
the  insult,  she  fled  on  into  the  darkness,  followed  by 
jeering  shouts  from  the  doorway. 

Thus  she  struggled  on  her  painful  flight,  and  the 
tedious  hours  wore  on  toward  the  dawn.  Her  strength 
was  all  spent, her  tender  feet  were  bruised  and  blistered  by 
the  hard  road,  her  dress  was  torn,  and  her  hair,  escaping 


134  IN   DARKNESS   AND    DISTRESS 

from  its  confinement,  fell  unkempt  over  her  shoulders. 
More  than  once  she  cast  herself  down  by  the  wayside, 
resolved  to  go  no  further;  anon,  the  thought  of  Weston 
Mayhew,  and  perhaps  some  noise  down  the  road, 
would  nerve  her  again,  and  she  would  toil  on  a  little 
further.  Before  the  tardy  daylight  came,  several  early 
market  carts  on  the  way  to  Beaverton  had  met  and 
passed  her,  and  she  noticed  others  when  it  was  light 
enough  to  see  them.  And  she  dragged  herself  on. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  when  she  stopped  and  leaned 
upon  the  low  palings  of  a  pretty  little  cottage.  A 
women  was  milking  a  cow  inside  the  fence,  while  a 
little  girl  played  near  her. 

"  O  mamma,"  she  cried,  "  See  the  poor  lady!  " 

The  woman  looked  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Come  here  instantly,  May,"  she  called,  "  and  let  the 
miserable  creature  be." 

She  went  on  with  her  milking.  June  knew  .that  a 
rude  rebuff  waited  for  her;  but  blows  could  not  have 
driven  her  away  then.  She  had  not  strength  to 
move. 

The  woman  finished  her  milking,  and  rose  from  the 
stool.  She  frowned  upon  seeing  June  still  at  the 
fence. 

"  What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  I  am  sick  and  tired,"  was  the  answer.  The  speaker 
looked  wistfully  at  the  pail. 

The  woman  took  a  tin  cup  from  the  pump,  and 
dipping  it  full  of  the  unstrained  milk,  handed  it  to 
June.  She  drank  it  eagerly,  and  in  a  faint  voice  said, 
"More." 

"  Why,  you  poor  creature!  "  the  other  cried,  as  she 
again  filled  the  cup.  "  You're  almost  famished.  Are 
you  hungry?  " 

June  again  emptied  the  cup,  and  returned  it,  with  a 
look  of  the  deepest  gratitude. 

"  A  little,"  she  answered,  "  but  more  weary.  I  can 
hardly  stand;  I  —  I  believe  I  am  going  to  faint." 


REFUGE   AND    DISCOVERY  135 

She  would  have  fallen  where  she  stood,  had  not  the 
compassionate  woman  sprung  outside  and  supported 
her  in  her  arms.  She  directed  the  little  girl  to  bring 
her  some  water  from  the  pump  in  the  cup,  and  she 
revived  June  by  throwing  a  little  of  it  into  her  face. 

The  sorrowful  blue  eyes  opened  gratefully  upon  her. 
"  Thank  you,"  whispered  June.  "  You  are  very  kind." 

"  You  poor  creature,  I  can't  help  pitying  you,  even 
if  you  are  bad,"  the  woman  said. 

June  thrust  her  indignantly  away. 

"  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
pursued  and  persecuted  by  a  wicked  man,  and  I  will 
kill  myself  sooner  than  go  with  him." 

"  Dear  me!  "  cried  the  woman.  "  Forgive  me;  I 
believe  you.  You  look  like  a  lady.  How  far  have 
you  walked?  " 

"  From  Beaverton." 

"  Beaverton!  Lord  save  you!  —  it's  almost  ten  miles. 
Come  right  in." 

She  almost  carried  her  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

REFUGE  AND  DISCOVERY. 

JUNE  seemed  in  a  moment  to  be  transported  from 
the  depths  of  misery  and  suffering  of  mind  and  body 
to  the  height  of  security  and  comfort.  The  heart  of 
the  good  housewife  was  touched  for  her,  and  she 
seemed  unable  to  do  enough  to  show  her  sympathy. 

"  Don't  say  a  word,"  she  said,  as  she  bustled  about. 
"  I  feel  grieved  and  provoked  at  myself  that  I  didn't 
see  at  once  that  you  was  good,  and  only  in  trouble  on 
account  of  some  dreadful  man.  Oh,  these  men!  I  tell 
my  Wally  that  there  ain't  more  than  one  out  of  ten  of 
'em  that  can  be  trusted;  but  Wally  is  a  jewel;  yes, 
indeed,  he  is.  Don't  you  talk  now,  I  say,  for  you're 
weak  and  sick,  and  mustn't  exert  yourself  till  I  fix  you 


136  REFUGE   AND    DISCOVERY 

up,  and  get  a  little  strength  into  you.  After  awhile 
you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  we  will  see  what's  to 
be  done;  but  I'm  going  to  have  my  way  with  you  for  a 
while." 

The  kind  soul  laid  June  upon  her  own  bed,  brought 
her  a  basin,  soap  and  towels,  insisted  on  bathing  her 
swollen  and  lacerated  feet  with  her  own  hands,  and 
combed  out  her  long  brown  hair,  admiring  its  thickness 
and  its  rich  hue.  In  a  few  minutes  she  had  prepared 
tea  and  toast  for  her. 

"  Now,  lie  right  down  there,  and  go  to  sleep,"  was 
the  next  gentle  command,  after  June  had  partaken  of 
the  refreshment.  She  gladly  yielded,  and  soon  forgot 
her  troubles  in  a  deep,  tranquil  slumber. 

It  lasted  more  than  two  hours.  The  clock  was 
striking  twelve  when  she  awoke  and  came  out  into  the 
neat  little  sitting-room. 

"  You're  looking  ever  so  much  better,"  said  the 
woman.  "  Here's  an  easy  pair  of  slippers  for  your 
poor  feet.  Sit  down  in  that  easy-chair,  and  if  you  feel 
well  enough,  you  may  tell  me  about  yourself.  I'm 
Mrs.  Bartram;  my  husband  owns  fifty  acres  of  land 
here;  you  can  almost  see  from  the  back-door  where 
he's  at  work  in  the  fields,  with  three  men.  I  must  get 
dinner  for  'em;  but  I've  plenty  of  time.  They  got  an 
extra  good  start  this  morning;  I  was  up  before  day- 
light, getting  their  breakfast.  Are  you  strong  enough 
to  talk?" 

In  a  few  words  June  told  her  story.  The  simple 
country  life  of  Mrs.  Bartram  had  made  her  acquainted 
with  no  such  experience  as  this,  and  she  was  deeply 
moved  by  it.  At  times  her  cheeks  flamed  with  indig- 
nation, and  then  tears  of  sympathy  rolled  down 
them. 

"You  poor,  dear,  abused  child!"  she  cried,  when 
June  had  done.  "And  you're  only  nineteen! — and 
were  just  married  last  night!  —  and  that  brute  —  that 
monster " 


REFUGE    AND    DISCOVERY  137 

She  stopped,  because  she  could  not  find  words  with 
which  to  express  her  wrath,  and  she  clinched  her  fin- 
gers, and  went  through  with  a  pantomime  that  looked 
much  like  the  pulling  of  hair. 

"  But  don't  worry,  my  dear  lady;  you  are  safe  now," 
she  added. 

"  You  don't  know  that  dreadful  man,"  said  June, 
with  a  shudder.  He'll  never  give  up  till  he  finds  me, 
and  then  he'll  take  me  away  by  force." 

"  By  force,  will  he?"  spunky  little  Mrs.  Bartram 
echoed.  "I'd  like  to  see  him  —  in  /Chouse!  I'd 
take  the  broomstick  to  him,  if  there  was  no  man  about; 
and  just  wait  till  noon,  and  Wally'll  be  home  with  the 
men,  and  one  of  them  shall  stay  with  us  all  the  rest  of 
the  day." 

"  I  would  like  to  send  a  telegram  to  my  father, "said 
June. 

"  So  you  shall.  Wally  shall  send  one  of  the  men 
over  to  Beaverton  with  it  after  dinner;  he'll  get  it  right 
off,  of  course?  " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  June,  hopefully,  "  and  then  he 
can  start  from  Bardwell  a  little  after  nine  to-night,  and 
get  to  Beaverton  before  twelve.  Oh,  do  send  it  for 
me!" 

"  Patience,  little  one,"  said  Mrs.  Bartram.  "  Every- 
thing is  going  on  all  right.  The  man  will  take  it  over 
after  dinner.  If  I  should  go  out  into,  the  fields  now 
for  him,  I'd  have  to  leave  you  alone,  and  that  you 
wouldn't  like. " 

"No  — no!" 

"  Of  course  not.  Get  the  telegram  written.  There's 
paper  and  pen  and  ink.  Tell  your  father  that  you're 
safe,  and  that  he  can  find  you  at  Wallace  Bartram's, 
nine  miles  out  on  the  Hillsdale  road." 

June  wrote  the  message,  while  her  kind  hostess 
busied  herself  about  the  room.  When  she  had  finished 
it  she  laid  it  on  the  table,  saying: 

There's  a  little  money  in  my  bag;  you  may " 


138  RETRIBUTION   AND    REUNION 

"  Don't  talk  about  money,  please,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Bartram.  "  Wally  will  see  that  it  goes.  Now,  if  you 
are  comfortable,  just  sit  here  and  amuse  yourself,  while 
I  do  my  kitchen  work  and  get  the  dinner  going  for 
those  men.  My,  how  hungry  they  do  get!  Here's 
books  and  papers;  if  you  want  anything,  rap  on  the 
table;  I  shall  be  sure  to  hear  you.  Wally  says  I've  got 
the  quickest  ear  and  the  sharpest  tongue  of  any  woman 
in  the  country. " 

She  ran  into  the  kitchen,  laughing. 

June  turned  the  leaves  of  some  of  the  books,  and 
looked  at  the  pictures,  but  she  could  not  get  interested 
in  them.  The  cheerful  words  of  Mr.  Bartram  had 
strengthened  her  and  calmed  her  fears,  and  her  thoughts 
were  turning  to  the  coming  of  her  father,  her  meeting 
with  him,  and  her  journey  back  to  her  old  home. 
Knowing  nothing  of  the  facts  of  Mayhew's  crimes,  with 
no  information  except  what  was  given  by  the  dispatch 
in  her  bag,  yet  a  feeling  had  crept  into  her  breast  that 
Ernest  Mulford  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
discovery,  and  that  she  should  see  him  when  she 
returned  to  Bardwell 

She  was  so  deeply  immersed  in  her  thoughts  "that  she 
did  not  hear  or  see  a  double-carriage  drive  up  to  the 
cottage  from  which  three  men  alighted.  One  of  them 
came  rapidly  up  to  the  open  door.  His  shadow  on  the 
floor  startled  her;  she  looked  up  and  saw  Weston  May- 
hew. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

RETRIBUTION   AND   REUNION. 

"COME!"  he  said. 

She  strove  to  rise,  but  her  limbs  failed  her.  She 
put  her  hands  before  her  face  to  shut  out  his  hateful 
presence. 

"  Come,  you  foolish  creature!  "   he  continued,  with 


RETRIBUTION    AND    REUNION  139 

hardly  the  appearance  of  tenderness.  "  Come  along 
with  me.  You  have  made  me  much  trouble,  and  I 
have  had  a  long  search  for  you;  but  it  turned  out  just 
as  it  was  certain  to.  Let  me  tell  you  now,  once  for 
all,  such  conduct  will  do  you  no  kind  of  good.  You 
may  succeed  in  severely  trying  my  patience,  as  you 
have  now,  putting  us  back  on  our  journey  almost  a 
day;  you  may  possibly,  if  you  continue  such  conduct, 
lessen  my  devotion  to  you;  but  you  will  still  remain 
my  wife,  subject  in  all  things  to  my  control.  Come, 
I  say!" 

She  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  argue  with  him; 
she  did  not  try  it.  But  there  was  one  appeal  she 
could  make. 

"  I  am  sick  and  weak,  and  my  feet  are  blistered 
with  my  long  walk.  I  cannot  go. " 

He  gave  a  sardonic  grin. 

"  Very  cool  of  you,  June,  I  think,  to  remind  me 
of  your  bad  condition,  which  you  brought  upon  your- 
self by  trying  to  run  away  from  me.  But  that  will  not 
avail.  I  have  brought  some  stout  fellows  along  to 
help  me,  in  case  you  should  resist;  they  will  be  useful 
now  to  carry  you  to  the  carriage.  Wait;  on  second 
thought,  I'll  carry  you  out  myself.  I  don't  choose  to 
have  this  very  shapely  form  in  the  arms  of  any  man 
but  myself.  I  shall  take  you  to  the  hotel  at  Beaverton; 
we  will  remain  there  till  the  next  train,  and  then  we 
will  go  on.  I  will  engage  a  berth  in  the  sleeping-car 
for  your  comfort.  Come!  " 

He  had  been  standing  by  the  door;  he  stepped 
forward  now,  with  outstretched  arms,  to  take  her  up. 
She  screamed,  and  rapped  the  table  sharply  with  her 
knuckles. 

Mrs.  Bartram  appeared.  At  one  glance  she  com- 
prehended the  situation.  She  boldly  placed  herself 
between  June  and  Mayhew. 

"  What  do  you  want  here?  "  she  demanded. 

"  I  want  my  wife.     Get  out  of  the  way. " 


140  RETRIBUTION    AND    REUNION 

"  She  is  not  your  wife.  I  know  all  about  you. 
You  can't  take  her  out  of  this  house.  I  defy  you  to 
lay  a  finger  on  her. " 

Angered  by  this  unexpected  opposition,  Mayhew 
took  Mrs.  Bartram  by  the  shoulders,  and  thrust  her 
rudely  to  one  side.  Her  blood  was  up,  and  rushing  to 
the  kitchen,  she  reappeared  in  an  instant  with  the  tongs. 
She  would  certainly  have  attacked  the  man  before  her 
with  them,  but  she  caught  sight  through  the  door  of 
two  more  men  coming  up  from  the  carriage.  Catching 
up  her  child  in  her  arms,  she  ran  though  the  kitchen 
out  into  the  fields,  screaming,  "  Wally!  Wally!  "  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. 

June  clutched  the  arms  of  the  chair  with  her  feeble 
hands. 

"  I  will  not  go  willingly,"  she  said.  "  You  will  have 
to  tear  me  away. " 

"  It  will  be  unpleasant  to  use  force;  but  if  I  must — " 

"  You  will  use  no  force  toward  this  lady. " 

One  of  the  men  had  entered  the  house,  and  placed 
himself  between  the  man  and  his  intended  victim.  He 
spoke  quietly,  but  with  decision,  and  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  strangely  familiar. 

The  heart  of  June  Gregory  leaped  at  the  sound,  but 
there  was  nothing  familiar  in  the  man's  appearance. 
As  he  stepped  forward  to  interfere,  she  saw  that  he  had 
a  bristling  shock  of  fiery  red  hair,  and  a  green  shade 
over  his  eyes. 

"  Get  back,  you  meddlesome  cur!  "  Mayhew  savagely 
commanded,  with  a  peremptory  wave  of  his  hand. 
"  Who  called  on  you?  Who  told  you  to  come  into  the 
house?  I'll  let  you  know  when  you  are  wanted." 

The  red  wig  and  the  green  shade  came  off,  and  were 
thrown  at  Mayhew's  feet.  The  man  stood  with  folded 
arms,  looking  calmly  at  his  baffled  enemy. 

Ernest  Mulford  was  revealed! 

With   bloodshot   eyes  and  face,  with  open  mouth,- 


RETRIBUTION    AND    REUNION  141 

panting  like  a  beast,  and  with  clenched  fists,  Weston 
Mayhew  was  about  to  rush  upon  him. 

"  Beware!  "  Mulford  exclaimed.  "  If  you  come  this 
way,  you'll  get  hurt.  I  don't  want  to  strike  you.  I 
can't  control  myself,  and  if  I  strike  you,  I  may  kill 
you." 

"  I  guess  I  will  take  a  hand  here,"  the  other  man  said 
in  a  loud  voice,  coming  forward  and  placing  a  hand  on 
the  enraged  Mayhew's  shoulder.  "  Weston  Mayhew, 
I  arrest  you.  Don't  resist;  if  you  do,  I  shall  put  these 
trinkets  on  you." 

Realizing  that  the  game  was  played  out,  that  he  had 
lost  in  the  desperate  hazard  that  he  had  staked  every- 
thing upon,  the  baffled  villain  even  in  that  threatening 
moment  showed  a  bold  front  and  an  insolent  air. 

"  Leave  the  house,  sir,  till  I  call  you!  Damnation! 
what  do  you  fellows  whom  I  have  hired  to  help  me 
mean  by  intruding  yourselves  in  this  way?  " 

"  Drop  that,"  said  the  man  who  held  his  hand  firmly 
on  the  other's  shoulder.  "  That  cock  won't  fight.  You 
are  the  victim  of  one  of  Ern  Ashley's  clever  tricks. 
He  has  helped  me  take  you;  but  I  should  have  had 
you  before  the  day  was  out,  any  way. " 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  My  name  is  Matt  Garton.  I  am  under-sherifif  of 
the  county.  That  young  man  over  there  is  my  deputy, 
specially  authorized  for  this  occasion." 

"  What  do  you  claim  the  right  to  arrest  me  for?  " 

"  Bigamy.  I  could  hand  you  over  to  the  United 
States  marshal  for  all  kinds  of  deviltry  with  the  mails, 
but  I  don't  think  he'll  have  a  chance  at  you  for  quite  a 
while  yet." 

"  I'll  trouble  you  to  produce  your  warrant." 

*'  I'll  trouble  you  to  come  out  and  get  into  that  car- 
riage, and  go  back  to  Beaverton  with  me,  and  you'll 
be  shown  my  warrant  without  any  delay.  In  short, 
Mr.  Mayhew,  I'll  submit  to  no  nonsense  with  you.  I 
know  what  the  evidence  is  on  which  the  warrant  is  to 


142  RETRIBUTION   AND    REUNION 

be  got;  I've  seen  a  great  part  of  it  myself,  in  writing, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  take  any  chances  of  your  getting 
away." 

"  But  I  won't  submit  without  process.  I'll  fight  for 
my  liberty  first. " 

The  officer  instantly  drew  a  revolver,  cocked  it  and 
covered  Mr.  Mayhew's  head. 

"  Mr.  Mulford,  "he  said,  in  a  cold,  stern  voice,  "  take 
these  handcuffs  and  put  them  on  that  man.  I'll  stand 
no  talk  from  him  of  resistance  and  fighting  the  officers 
of  the  law." 

With  his  heart  almost  bursting  with  rage,  Mayhew 
submitted  to  the  unspeakable  humiliation  of  having  his 
triumphant  and  deeply-injured  rival  handcuff  him  like 
a  felon. 

"  You'll  all  smart  for  this,"  he  threatened,  with  such 
thick  utterance  that  his  speech  resembled  the  growl  of 
a  wild  beast.  "  You  have  no  evidence." 

"  You  might  as  well  know,"  said  Mulford,  "  that  I 
have  in  my  pocket  at  this  moment  the  certificate  of 
your  marriage  with  Phebe  Bashford,  more  than  ten  years 
ago,  and  that  that  marriage  will  be  amply  proved.  I 
have  also  in  my  pocket,  restored  and  legible,  all  the 
letters  that  I  wrote  from  Granby  to  Bard  well,  to  this  lady 
and  others,  and  one  letter  which  she  wrote  to  me  and 
which  you  abstracted  from  the  post-office,  opened, 
read,  and  destroyed.  They  were  all  found  in  your 
waste-basket,  and  pieced  together;  and  at  least  one  of 
them  you  were  seen  to  read  and  destroy.  What  are 
you  going  to  say  to  that?" 

Like  the  knell  of  doom  did  this  revelation  sound  in 
the  ears  of  the  guilty  man.  Knowing  the  blind  infatu- 
ation of  Phebe  for  him,  he  had  been  reasoning  since 
his  interview  with  the  police-officer  at  Randolph,  that 
she  had  probably  dropped  some  hint  of  the  truth,  in 
her  vexation  at  his  marriage  with  June,  and  that  it  had 
come  to  the  ears  of  Ernest  Mulford;  but  he  knew  that 
this  woman  would  never  make  such  a  charge  openly 


RETRIBUTION   AND    REUNION  143 

against  him,  nor  confirm  it  if  made  by  others,  and  he 
had  been  easy  in  his  mind  as  to  that  accusation,  except 
for  the  temporary  inconvenience  that  it  gave  him. 

But  now  he  was  confronted  with  the  written  proof  of 
that  marriage,  which,  with  too  great  caution,  he  had 
neglected  to  destroy  when  he  had  discovered  it;  and 
with  those  fatal  letters,  which  he  had  supposed  were 
burned  up  by  Blynn! 

.  He  stared  at  Mulford,  One  faint  ray  of  hope  darted 
t  to  his  brain.  Was  not  this  merely  assertion,  born  of 
;  suspicion,  made  to  induce  a  confession?  Was  it  not  a 
!trap  that  was  skillfully  set  for  him? 

"  It  is  all  false!"  he  said,  defiantly.  "  There  never 
were  any  such  things  in  existence.  I  defy  you  to  pro- 
duce them!" 

Ernest  Mulford  took  out  the  strong  envelope. 

One  by  one  the  damning  proofs  of  his  guilt  were 
held  up  within  a  yard  of  his  face,  while  he  stood  with 
helpless  hands  and  raging  brain,  overwhelmed  by  the 
torrent  of  his  crushing  defeat. 

His  startling  situation  and  its  consequences  flashed 
upon  him  with  horrible  distinctness. 

He  was  defeated,  discovered,  at  all  points. 

The  things  that  men  call  honor,  respect,  admiration, 
the  names  of  which  he  had  enjoyed  to  his  fill,  were 
utterly  gone. 

June  was  lost  to  him;  June,  the  peerless,  priceless 
creature,  for  whom  he  had  risked  all.  Aye,  unhappy 
man — you  never  had  really  and  truly  possessed  her! 

He  could  not  even  enjoy  the  stealthy  love  of  Phebe 
Bashford,  his  real  wife.  There  would  have  been  a  cer- 
tain charm  in  that,  if  he  could  still  have  possessed  it. 
But  he  could  not. 

It  must  go  with  the  rest;  his  wealth  could  not  save 
him;  he  must  lose  that,  too,  for  years  and  years — 
perhaps  for  the  balance  of  his  lifetime. 

Because  the  prison-gates   were  yawning  for  him. 


144  SUNSHINE    THROUGH    CLOUDS 

There  could  be  no  escape.      Repeated  crimes  had  in- 
sured his  doom. 

The  strain  was  too  much.  A  blood-vessel  burst  in 
his  brain.  The  terrible  grasp  of  apoplexy  was  laid 
upon  him,  and  smote  him  helpless  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SUNSHINE  THROUGH  CLOUDS. 

MR.  GARTON  knelt  down  by  the  prostrate  man, 
loosened  his  vest  and  collar,  and  called  for  water  to 
dash  in  his  face.  He  did  not  move.  The  officer's 
hand  explored  the  breast  for  the  heart.  There  was  not 
the  faintest  beat. 

"  He  is  dead,"  was  the  brief  comment. 

June  bowed  her  face  upon  her  hands,  and  saw  that 
odious  face  no  more. 

Brisk  Mrs.  Bartram  stormed  into  the  house  from  the 
rear,  with  her  stalwart  husband,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
and  three  laborers  following.  In  a  few  words,  whis- 
pered aside,  Ernest  Mulford  explained  the  situation. 

The  body  was  carried  into  another  room. 

"  Things  have  taken  an  unexpected  turn,"  said  Mr. 
Garton.  "  My  authority  is  at  an  end  —  and  yours,  too, 
Mr.  Mulford.  I  will  go  back  to  Beaverton,  and  notify 
the  coroner  and  the  undertaker." 

"  And  please  telegraph  the  news,  briefly,  to  Em- 
manuel Gregory,  Bardwell,  and  ask  him  to  come  on 
here." 

"I  will,  sir.     Good-day." 

Death,  under  any  roof,  produces  a  hush.  It  did 
here.  One  of  the  men  was  sent  in  to  remain  with 
the  corpse,  and  Wally  Bartram  and  the  others  stood 
around  in  the  kitchen,  and  heard  the  housewife's  nar- 
rative of  what  she  had  seen  and  what  June  had  told 
her,  while  the  preparations  for  dinner  went  on;  for  men 
must  dine,  though  death  be  in  their  midst. 


SUNSHINE    THROUGH    CLOUDS  145 

June,  in  the  sitting-room,  looked  up,  and  saw  Ernest 
standing  near. 

"  You  heard  what  I  said  to  that  man,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  know,  then,  what  villainy  has  kept  us  apart, 
and  slandered  my  good  name;  yes,  and  almost  made 
us  both  wretched  for  life.  When  you  know  how  I 
have  labored  and  struggled  to  shield  you  from  that 
man  and  save  you  from  a  fate  that  would  shadow  your 
life  forever,  you  will  understand  better  than  I  could 
tell  you  two  months  ago,  better  than  I  can  now  tell 
you,  how  much  I  love  you.  But  perhaps  you  have 
not  changed  your  mind.  If  not,  I  can  leave  you  with 
my  blessing,  though  with  a  heavy  heart. " 

He  turned  partly  away.  He  heard  her  pronounce 
his  name. 

"Ernest!" 

She  was  holding  forth  both  hands  to  him.  Tears  of 
gratitude  and  affection  were  falling  from  her  eyes, 
through  which  a  little  smile  broke  like  the  sun  through 
the  clouds. 

Mrs.  Bartram,  thinking  that  June  might  be  wanting 
something  by  this  time,  looked  into  the  sitting-room. 
She  softly  reclosed  the  door,  and  came  back  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  It  is  all  right, "  she  said  to  the  men.  "I  had  a 
lively  suspicion  that  the  clever  fellow  who  took  off  the 
wig,  as  we've  heard,  was  the  dear  girl's  own  young 
man;  and  now  I  know  it.  Such  hugging  and  kissing  I 
haven't  seen  since — since " 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Wally;  and  she 
boxed  his  ears  with  a  wet  hand. 

After  midnight  Mr.  Gregory  reached  the  cottage. 
We  draw  a  veil  over  the  meeting  between  him  and  his 
child  and  Mulford. 

It  was  three  days  before  June  had  sufficiently  recovered 
from  the  fatigues  and  exposures  of  that  dreadful  night 
to  be  able  to  travel.  The  little  cottage  was  put  to  its 

A  Shtrp  Night's  Work  19 


146  SUNSHINE   THROUGH   CLOUDS 

utmost  capacity  during  that  time  to  hold  the  guests; 
but  Mrs.  Bartram  proved  herself  equal  to  the 
emergency. 

The  coroner's  jury  examined  into  the  cause  of  Weston 
Mayhew's  death,  and  found  that  it  was  due  to  natural 
causes.  The  body  was  sent  to  Bardwell,  and  there 
buried. 

Upon  his  person,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  there  was 
found  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars  in  paper  money, 
and  drafts  on  New  York  for  forty  thousand  more.  At 
the  instance  of  a  creditor  to  whom  he  owed  several 
hundred  dollars,  a  temporary  administrator  of  his 
estate  was  appointed.  The  trunks  of  the  deceased 
were  returned  from  New  York  to  this  person,  and  an 
examination  of  their  contents  showed  a  little  more  than 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  in  registered 
United  States  bonds,  foreign  exchange  and  certificates 
of  stock. 

Thus  again  was  the  sagacity  of  the  detective  in  his 
predictions  to  Ernest  Mulford  confirmed. 

As  the  train  that  brought  home  Mr.  Gregory  and  his 
daughter  and  Ernest  rolled  into  the  station,  it  seemed 
as  though  half  the  population  of  Bardwell,  men, 
women  and  children,  were  there.  And  when  these 
three  stepped  from  the  car  they  were  at  once  sur- 
rounded by  a  crowd  of  eager,  sympathizing  faces. 
Mr.  Gregory  soon  got  June  into  a  carriage,  and  took 
her  home  to  its  rest  and  seclusion,  and  to  the  embrace 
of  her  mother.  Ernest  could  not  escape  so  easily. 
For  once  a  whole  community  seemed  struck  with 
something  like  shame  at  having  credited  the  vile 
slanders  against  a  worthy  man,  and  turned  out  to  wel- 
come him  back  in  honor.  The  astounding  facts  con- 
nected with  the  death  of  BardwelPs  foremost  citizen, 
the  intelligence  of  his  crimes,  and  the  heroic  struggle 
of  Ernest,  so  strangely  crowned  with  success  at  last, 
to  save  June  from  him,  had  created  something  like  a 
popular  furor  for  the  young  man.  The  people  now 


SUNSHINE   THROUGH    CLOUDS  147 

besieged  him  with  their  congratulations  and  praises. 
The  men  shook  him  by  the  hand  until  his  arm  ached, 
called  him  a  splendid  fellow,  and  hoped  for  him  all 
kinds  of  good  fortune.  The  ladies  would  have  their 
say,  too;  his  had  been  that  kind  of  self-sacrificing  de- 
votion that  always  appeals  strongly  to  the  female  heart; 
and  in  that  hour  he  was  so  lionized  that  he  wearied 
of  it. 

The  whole  truth  must  be  told.  Many  of  the  ladies 
were  so  enthusiastic  that  they  insisted  on  kissing  him, 
and  had  their  will. 

When  the  excitement  had  partially  subsided,  a 
friendly  voice  said: 

"  Let  me  add  my  congratulations,  now,  Mr.  Mul- 
ford;  you  have  done  splendidly." 

"  Ah  —  Mr.  Lear!"  exclaimed  Ernest,  heartily  shak- 
ing his  hand.  "  When  did  you  get  here?" 

"  On  the  next  day,  the  I9th,  as  I  expected.  The 
attack  passed  off,  as  I  anticipated.  I  learned  by  tele- 
graph at  Granby  Station  what  had  happened,  and  the 
ardent  pursuit  you  were  making.  It  was  precisely  the 
thing;  nobody  could  have  advised  anything  better. 

"  I  saw  that  everything  was  going  to  turn  out  as  it 
should.  About  seven,  when  Mayhew  was  unsus- 
piciously starting  out  with  you  and  the  sheriff  in  his 
carriage,  Mr.  Ashley  sent  a  dispatch,  and  at  noon  we 
got  another  from  the  sheriff,  telling  the  whole  story." 

The  two  men  had  escaped  from  the  crowd  and  were 
walking  arm  in  arm  toward  the  hotel. 

0  And  all  that  I  have  done, "  said  Ernest,  with  deep 
emotion,  "  would  have  been  of  not  the  least  avail  had 
not  your  skill  and  perseverance  unraveled  all  that 
man's  villainy  so  promptly  and  secretly,  and  put  me 
on  the  track  in  time  to  run  him  down,  and  save  June. 
Excellent  man!  — how  can  I  ever  begin  to  repay  you? 
And  why  have  you  taken  such  an  interest  in  my  wel- 
fare —  and  hers?" 

They  passed  beneath  a  lamp  and  Ernest  saw  one  of 


148  SUNSHINE    THROUGH    CLOUDS 

his  serious  smiles  softening  the  hard  lines  around  the 
detective's  mouth. 

"  No  matter  about  that  now,  Mr.  Mulford.  There's 
time  enough  yet  for  that  explanation.  At  present  I 
would  like  to  ask  a  question  of  you,  if  you  will  not 
think  it  impertinent." 

"  After  what  has  happened,  you  could  not  possibly 
be  impertinent  about  my  affairs." 

"  You  encourage  rne  to  ask  the  question,  and  it  is  a 
delicate  one.  I  do  not  ask  it  out  of  idle  curiosity, 
mind!  The  answer  very  deeply  concerns  your  welfare 
in  more  than  one  point  of  view.  I  would  like  to  know 
if  the  misunderstanding  has  been  removed  between 
Miss  Gregory  and  you.  " 

"  Entirely,"  replied  Ernest. 

The  detective  was  silent. 

"  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  know  something  more?"  the 
young  man  laughed. 

"  Indeed,  I  would  very  much  like  to  know  one  thing 
more." 

"  Then  you  shall.  June  and  I  are  engaged.  While 
there  could  not  with  propriety,  at  this  stage  of  our 
affairs,  be  a  definite  engagement  and  a  day  fixed,  yet 
everything  is  clear  between  us,  and  if  we  both  live  a 
few  months  longer,  we  shall  be  man  and  wife." 

Mr.  Lear  seized  both  his  hands  and  wrung  them. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it.  I  con- 
gratulate you  again,  because,"  and  the  serious  smile 
broadened  over  his  face,  "  you  are  about  to  hear  a  most 
astonishing  piece  of  news,  for  which  you  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  been  prepared. " 


A   HORROR    OF   THE   NIGHT  149 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  HORROR  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

WHEN,  on  the  night  of  the  i6th  of  September, 
Weston  Mayhew  went  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Bashford 
and  vainly  tried  to  gain  admittance,  for  the  purpose  of 
stealthily  possessing  himself  of  the  marriage  certificate, 
the  house  was  in  fact  vacant.  Its  mistress  had  gone  to 
Randolph  that  morning,  and  did  not  return  till  the 
morning  following.  Emilia,  her  domestic,  had  been 
allowed  to  go  home  in  the  meantime,  and  came  back 
on  the  1 7th.  So  frequent  were  these  occasions  that 
the  girl  was  requested  to  absent  herself  for  a  brief  time, 
growing  mainly  out  of  the  secret  visits  of  Mayhew  to 
the  house,  that  she  had  come  to  think  nothing  of  them. 
The  real  truth  she  never  dreamed  of.  She  rather  liked 
her  mistress,  though  regarding  her  as  an  eccentric  kind 
of  person,  and  since  she  received  excellent  wages,  and 
the  work  was  light,  so  much  liberty  was  quite  agreeable 
to  her. 

The  1 7th  passed  as  usual  with  Mrs.  Bashford  and 
her  domestic.  Things  went  on  as  usual  in  that  house 
on  the  next  day,  till  after  the  dinner  hour.  About 
three  o'clock  the  little  bell  summoned  the  servant  to 
the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Bashford  was  sitting  in  the  depths  of  a  great 
easy  chair,  with  a  large  volume  on  her  lap. 

"  I  shall  not  want  you  till  to-morrow,  Emilia,"  she 
said.  "  Go  home  now." 

"  You'll  wish  me  to  be  here  to  get  the  breakfast, 
ma'am,  won't  you?" 

"  To  get  the  breakfast?"  repeated  the  lady. 

The  girl  said  afterward  that  her  mistress  spoke  as  if 
she  did  not  comprehend  the  very  simple  question,  and 
seemed  to  look  away  beyond  her,  in  a  vacant  kind  of 
way.  Her  eyes  returned  to  the  book;  she  did  not 
answer  the  question  at  all.  Emilia  left  her,  more  than 


150  A    HORROR    OF    THE    NIGHT 

ever  convinced  that,  kind  as  she  was,  she  was  "  a  very 
queer  lady. " 

The  girl,  after  doing  some  shopping  on  the  street, 
having  just  been  paid  a  week's  wages  in  advance,  and 
spending  some  time  with  other  domestics  of  her 
acquaintance  at  the  houses  where  they  were  employed, 
reached  home  after  dark.  She  was  the  only  child  of 
her  widowed  mother,  a  lynx-eyed,  spectacled  dame, 
who  dwelt  alone  in  a  little  house,  save  at  such  times  as 
her  daughter  was  able  to  be  with  her. 

She  greeted  her  entrance  at  this  time  with  much 
surprise. 

"  What's  the  matter  now,  Em  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Oh,  nothing  but  another  holiday,"  the  girl  cheer- 
fully answered.  "  Mrs.  Bashford  wants  to  be  alone  till 
morning,  and,  the  Lord  knows,  I'm  willing  she  should 
be." 

"  And  it  was  only  yesterday  you  went  back,  after  a 
day's  holiday,"  the  dame  sharply  commented.  "  Look 
here,  Emmy —  I  don't  know  about  this.  I  hain't  been 
half  satisfied,  all  along,  about  it.  You  get  good  wages 
and  have  easy  times;  but  sometimes  I  think  'tain't  just 
respectable,  all  this  bein'  alone  of  your  missus. " 

"  Well,  never  mind,  mother,"  said  the  daughter, 
lightly.  "  If  Mrs.  Bashford  can  stand  it,  I  guess  /can." 

"  Maybe  /can't,  then!"  old  Mrs.  Grove  protested. 
"  I'm  a  respectable  woman,  and  I  mean  to  bring  you  up 
respectably,  Emily  —  or  Emilia,  if  that  suits  you  any 
better.  I  don't  like  your  having  service  at  a  house 
where  you  ain't  allowed  to  attend  more'n  half  the  time. 
It  don't  look  respectable.  You  just  go  back  there,  and 
come  in  on  that  big  lady  kind  of  sudden,  and  see  what 
she's  up  to." 

"  Mother,  I  shan't  do  it!  I'm  ashamed  to  have  you 
mention  such  a  thing.  Mrs.  Bashford  has  been  kind 
to  me,  and  I  won't  sneak  round  in  any  such  way,  to 
spy  on  her." 

41  You  won't?  " 


A   HORROR   OF   THE   NIGHT  151 

"No." 

"  Then  I  will.  I've  seen  enough  of  this,  Em.  I 
don't  like  it;  we've  got  to  have  an  understanding 
about  it." 

The  daughter  protested;  but  Mrs.  Grove  was  in 
earnest,  and,  putting  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  left  the 
house. 

She  returned  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  in  a  state  of 
great  excitement;  and  the  report  she  made  was  mingled 
with  sobs. 

Mrs.  Grove  had,  at  first  sight,  found  the  house  very 
dark.  She  had  rung  the  door-bell,  without  answer. 
Trying  the  door,  she  had  found  it  locked. 

She  had  passed  round  the  house.  All  was  dark,  until 
she  came  along  the  verandah  at  one  side.  There  a 
very  faint  ray  of  light  shot  out  under  the  partially- 
lowered  curtain.  The  blinds  were  closed  on  all  the 
windows  on  that  side;  at  one  window  she  managed  to 
unfasten  and' open  them. 

Then  she  saw  what  almost  caused  her  to  scream  with 
fear! 

She  saw  that  the  light  came  from  a  bed-room, 
beyond  the  parlor.  The  door  between  was  open. 

She  saw  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  saw  a  white,  deli- 
cate hand  thrown  over  the  foot-board.  She  saw  a 
woman's  head  hanging  over  the  side  of  the  bed,  toward 
the  foot,  with  hair  all  disheveled  and  sweeping  the  floor. 
Hand,  arm,  head  were  motionless. 

All  this  she  saw  with  one  horrified  glance,  and  ran 
screaming  from  the  spot. 

She  burst  in  on  her  daughter,  at  home,  terrified  and 
excited.  She  managed  to  tell  her  what  she  had  seen. 

"  Well,  I  declare  1"  Emilia  pettishly  exclaimed. 
"What  of  it  all?  If  Mrs.  Bashford  wants  to  eat 
canned  lobster  and  have  bad  dreams,  as  she  often  does, 
why  shouldn't  she?  That's  all  there  is  of  it." 

"No,    no!"     Mrs.    Grove    vehemently    protested. 


152  A    HORROR    OF   THE   NIGHT 

"  There's  horror  in  that  house.     I  wouldn't  step  foot  in 
it  for  uncounted  gold.     O  Heaven,  such  a  sight!" 

The  girl  was  not  only  unconvinced,  but  angry.  She 
was  determined,  now,  to  vindicate  her  good  mistress, 
and  to  show  that  all  was  in  her  house  as  it  should  be. 

Emilia  put  on  her  hat  and  wrap  and  started.  Mrs. 
Grove,  begging  her  not  to  go,  followed  after. 

Emilia  reached  the  house,  and  by  aid  of  her  own 
door-key  entered.  She  did  not  remain  five  minutes. 
She  burst  out,  crying  and  screaming,  and  joined  her 
mother  far  up  the  street. 

"  Do  you  believe  me,  then?"  Mrs.  Grove  asked. 

"  O,  my  God,  yes!  —  'tis  dreadful!  Poor  Mrs. 
Bashford!  what  shall  we  do?" 

"  Go  for  Dr.  Eldridge,"  her  mother  said. 

The  girl  accepted  the  advice,  and  the  two  started 
together.  It  was  a  long  walk  to  the  doctor's;  they 
arrived  there,  only  to  be  told  that  he  was  attending  a 
wedding-party  at  Mr.  Gregory's. 

Emilia  hastened  thither.  She  arrived  after  the  bridal 
party  had  departed,  after  the  unceremonious  rush  of 
Ernest  Mulford  into  the  house.  It  was  her  white, 
scared  face  that  was  thrust  into  the  parlors,  calling  for 
Dr.  Eldridge. 

The  doctor  accompanied  the  woman  to  the  house. 
He  went  in,  they  following  him  fearfully. 

He  was  in  the  chamber  a  moment  alone.  There  was 
pause  and  silence. 

"  Come  in  here!  "  he  said.  "  You  must  see,  as  well 
as  I.  You  will  have  to  be  witnesses." 

They  entered  reluctantly. 

The  dark  hair  still  swept  the  floor;  the  head  still 
hung  over  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"  Look  at  the  eyes,  "  said  the  doctor. 

They  were  fixed  and  staring,  with  the  pupils  strangely 
dilated. 

"  Feel  of  her  hands.  " 

They  were  stone  cold. 


154  THE   VOICE   OF  DEATH 

"See  here!" 

He  lifted  up  from  the  stand  an  empty  vial. 

"  Smell  of  it;  it  will  not  harm  you  to  smell." 

They  did  so.  It  had  the  bitter  odor  of  crushed 
peach-kernels. 

"  Prussic  acid,  "  said  Dr.  Eldridge,  briefly.  "  That's 
her  story.  " 

It  was  not  quite  all  her  story.  A  sealed  package 
was  found  under  the  pillow,  addressed  to  Weston  May- 
hew.  On  the  next  day,  when  the  news  of  his  death 
came  to  Bardwell,  the  package  was  opened  by  the 
coroner.  It  contained  the  unhappy  woman's  state- 
ment and  confession. 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  VOICE  OF  DEATH  —  MRS.  BASHFORD'S  CONFESSION. 

THIS  is  the  1 8th  day  of  September,  1877.  It  is 
now  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  I  am  alone  here  in 
my  house  at  Bardwell.  I  have  sent  my  servant  home, 
that  I  may  not  be  interrupted  in  my  design. 

It  is  no  ordinary  design.  I  am  proposing  to  kill 
myself.  I  am  perfectly  ready  and  willing — yes,  anx- 
ious ! — to  die;  but  I  don't  want  to  be  tormented  in  body 
on  the  passage  from  one  world  to  another.  Of  course, 
I  couldn't  go  to  Dr.  Eldridge,  or  any  other  doctor,  and 
ask  him  which  is  the  easiest  form  of  suicide.  So  I 
have  had  to  investigate  for  myself.  I  have  been  for 
some  days  reading  up  on  the  subject,  and  I  have 
decided  in  favor  of  prussic  acid.  If  you  take  half  an 
ounce  of  it,  of  ordinary  strength,  you  are  dead  in  two 
minutes. 

So  that  question  is  settled.     That  shall  be  my  way. 

Well  —  I  suppose  that  to-morrow  the  doctors  and 
the  officers  of  the  law  and  a  lot  of  gaping  men  will 
gather  about  my  poor,  cold  clay,  whisper  to  each  other 
that  this  woman  was  surely  mad,  to  make  such  an  end 
of  herself. 


THE    VOICE    OF    DEATH  155 

My  dear  sirs,  don't  make  any  such  mistake!  I  am 
perfectly  sane;  if  I  were  not,  I  shouldn't  have  deliber- 
ated so  long  on  the  easiest  mode  of  ending  it  all.  I 
shouldn't  have  gone  to  Randolph,  two  days  ago,  to 
get  the  poison,  for  fear  that  it  would  excite  remark  if  I 
got  it  here.  Mad!  Why,  when  a  woman  has  nothing 
to  live  for,  why  shouldn't  she  kill  herself?  That  is 
what  I  have  often  thought ;  that  is  what  I  am  going  to 
put  in  practice  now. 

I  write  this  to  explain  myself.  I  mean  it  fo-r  the 
only  person  on  earth  that  I  love,  and  who  no  longer 
loves  me.  If  it  falls  into  his  hands,  he  will  read  it  and 
burn  it.  That  will  be  well.  But  should  it  by  chance 
fall  into  other  hands,  then  the  people  of  Bardwell  will 
know  how  I  have  loved  and  suffered.  These  are  my 
last  hours ;  I  care  not  how  it  be. 

I  have  not  dared  to  address  it  to  him,  as  I  shall 
address  the  envelope.  My  love  would  overcome  me. 
I  should  seem  to  be  talking  to  him,  right  here  before 
me,  and  I  should  break  down.  O  Weston,  Weston 
Mayhew!  you  do  not,  you  never  can  know  how  I  love 
you! 

There  is  his  name;  the  name  of  him  who  is  all  the 
world  to  me,  without  whose  love  this  world  is  empty 
and  hollow. 

Good  people  of  Bardwell,  should  this  ever  meet  your 
eyes  you  will  wonder  to  learn  that  I  am  his  wife.  Yes, 
his  lawful  wife,  wedded  to  him  in  far-off  California, 
almost  twelve  years  ago.  And  you  will  wonder  that 
it  could  be  so;  and  good  wives  and  matrons  among  you 
will  sneer,  that  I  can  claim  now  to  be  his  wife  for  the 
first  time. 

Well,  sneer  at  me,  if  you  will.  Only  let  me  say  that 
the  kind  of  love  that  I  have  for  this  man  is  a  kind  that 
you  know  nothing  of.  I  told  him  once  that  I  loved 
him  well  enough  to  die  for  him.  It  was  true;  I  am 
going  to  die  for  him. 


156  THE    VOICE    OF   DEATH 

Let  me  tell  this  bitter,  yet  blissful  story  briefly.  He 
knows  how  true  it  is. 

I  was  a  romantic  girl,  just  grown  to  womanhood.  I 
was  full  of  passion  and  impulse,  as  well  as  romance. 
Like  most  creatures  of  that  kind  I  had  my  ideal.  I  saw 
Weston  Mayhew,  and  he  realized  to  me  every  dream 
of  my  life. 

I  don't  know  whether  he  had  ever  loved,  or  not. 
He  told  me  that  he  had  never  married;  that  he  had  no 
parents  living,  no  brothers  nor  sisters,  nor  children  of 
brothers  or  sisters;  that  he  had  no  relatives  on  earth 
but  two  distant  cousins. 

More  than  once  since  those  happy  days  he  has 
reproached  me  that  I  courted  him.  If  it  was  so  I  could 
not  help  it. 

No,  I  could  not  help  it.  He  loved  me  in  a  kind  of 
way,  I  suppose,  as  all  men  love  all  women.  Yes,  I 
will  be  candid;  he  warned  me  that  I  had  better  not 
marry  him.  But  I  did,  just  because  I  loved  him,  and 
he  indifferently  consented. 

From  that  day  to  this  I  have  consented  to  keep  our 
marriage  secret,  just  because  he  wished  it.  When  he 
left  California,  giving  me  ample  means  to  live  on,  he 
made  me  promise  that  I  would  not  follow  him.  That 
promise  I  meant  to  keep.  But  our  boy,  my  idol,  died. 
I  hungered  for  this  man's  love;  I  braved  his  dis- 
pleasure, and  made  the  weary  journey  here. 

Here  for  two  years  I  have  secretly  enjoyed  the  love 
that  he  chose  to  give  me.  Nobody  has  suspected  the 
truth. 

But  I  might  have  known  that  this  could  not  long  go 
on.  It  is  he  that  has  brought  on  the  end. 

Very  lately  he  told  me  with  his  own  lips  that  he 
expected  to  marry  that  pert  creature,  young  June 
Gregory.  He  laughed  at  me  when  I  protested,  with 
tears,  against  such  wickedness,  and  told  me  that  I 
could  enjoy  his  love  just  the  same;  that  we  could  keep 
everything  secret,  just  as  before. 


THE   VOICE   OF   DEATH  157 

Do  not  mistake  me.  I  am  none  too  good  for  that, 
if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  share  him  with  another. 
But  I  can't.  He  shall  be  mine  alone,  or  life  will  hold 
nothing  further  for  me. 

Five  o'clock  —  I  put  aside  my  writing,  put  on  my 
wrapper  and  slippers,  and  have  walked  about  the 
house,  viewing  all  the  familiar  things  that  it  contains. 
It  is  all  so  pleasant,  it  is  hard  to  leave  it  all!  Oh,  why 
cannot  he  find  his  happiness  here  with  me? 

I  have  learned  that  he  will  marry  June  at  half-past 
eight  o'clock  to-night.  He  has  tried  hard  to  keep  it 
secret,  but  after  what  he  told  me,  I  have  been  sus- 
picious, and  have  laid  a  dozen  traps  for  the  truth.  I 
have  secured  it  in  one  of  them,  no  matter  how. 

O  cruel,  cruel  man!  He  knows  me  all  too  well.  He 
knows  that  I  never  could  betray  him  —  never  could 
give  him  over  to  the  law!  I  love  him  too  well. 

Yet  he  does  not  know  that  I  love  him  too  well  to 
share  his  love  with  another.  He  will  believe  it  to- 
morrow! 

Six  o'clock — I  have  been  sleeping  in  my  chair,  I  be- 
lieve. My  thoughts  went  away  over  the  mountains, 
almost  to  the  Pacific,  to  the  glen  where  my  boy  —  his 
boy — is  buried.  Shall  I  meet  dear  little  West  to- 
morrow. I  wonder  —  if  I — if — 

Half -past  seven — I  know  I  have  slept,  this  time;  a 
glance  at  the  clock  tells  me  so.  I  have  awakened  calm 
and  clear  in  my  mind.  I  am  resolved! 

Just  now  I  went  to  the  shelves,  and  looked  where  I 
have  ever  kept  our  marriage  certificate.  I  wanted  to 
look  for  the  last  time  on  the  link  that  binds  us  two  to- 
gether—  binds  us,  though  he  will  not  own  it,  nor  let 
me  avow  it.  I  had  it  in  mind  that  I  would  give  it 
one  long,  lingering  look;  that  I  would  kiss  it,  perhaps; 
and  that  then,  for  his  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  his  hap- 
piness with  his  new  wife,  I  would  burn  it,  before  I  go 
hence. 


158      THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION 

It  is  not  there.  Some  hand  has  removed  it.  Whose 
but  his  could  it  be? 

Well,  it  is  but  another  pang  in  the  hour  of  death. 
Let  it  go.  It  has  been  an  empty  possession  to  me. 
To  see  it  now  would  not  comfort  me. 

These  last  lines  are  written  in  my  chamber.  I  shall 
not  be  disturbed;  they  will  not  find  what  is  left  of  me 
till  morning. 

Let  me  steady  myself  before  I  go.  Let  me  take  a 
last  thought  of  this  world  and  its  people. 

It  seems  strange,  does  it  not?  —  that  you  can  pass 
so  quickly  from  one  world  to  another! 

I  have  said  it  before;  let  me  say  it  again,  in  my 
dying  moment!  Life  is  sweet  to  me;  but  I  give  it  up, 
because  it  is  necessary  for  his  happiness  that  I  do  so. 
I  die  for  him.  I  give  him  all  I  have. 

0  God,  pardon  me!     O  Christ,  have  mercy  upon 
me!     This  it  is,  to  love  too  well! 

1  hear  the  ticking  of  the  clock;    a  faint  sound  of 
distant  laughter  and  footsteps  reaches  me.     Five  min- 
utes hence  —  what  shall  I  hear  —  what  see? 

My  work  is  almost  done;  a  few  more  words,  and  I 
shall  lay  this  weary  pen  aside.  But  I  shall  sign  this 
paper  with  my  rightful  name,  for  the  first  and  last  time; 
with  the  name  he  gave  me. 

The  vial  is  before  me,  with  its  colorless,  deadly 
draught.  Welcome  the  sudden,  quick  relief  that  it 
brings! 

No  more  —  no PHEBE  MAYHEW. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION. 

ONE  week  had  passed  since  the  return  of  June' 
Gregory,  her  father  and  lover,  to  Bardwell.  The  coro- 
ner's jury  had  viewed  the  remains  of  Mrs.  Phebe 
Mayhew,  as  she  must  now  be  called,  taken  the  testi- 


THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION   159 

mony  of  the  servant,  her  mother,  and  Dr.  Eldridge, 
and  returned  a  verdict  that  the  deceased  had  died  from 
the  effects  of  poison  administered  by  herself.  Hardly 
anything  but  the  strange  events  that  we  have  been 
recording  was  talked  about  in  town,  and  the  press  had 
taken  them  up  and  published  them  far  and  wide  through 
the  land.  It  may  be  doubted  if  any  case  that,  on  ac- 
count of  its  peculiar  circumstances  and  surroundings, 
never  got  into  court,  ever  excited  more  comment  or 
interest  than  did  the  famous  "  Mayhew  case." 

We  will  introduce  the  reader  to  the  pleasant  sitting- 
room  of  the  Gregory  mansion  o*n  the  Saturday  after- 
noon which  closes  the  week  referred  to. 

It  is  the  pleasant  hour  after  dinner,  when  a  family- 
circle  and  its  guests  may  sit  and  chat  in  that  quiet 
enjoyment  that  is  found  nowhere  but  in  a  home.  Mr. 
Gregory  and  his  wife,  much  subdued  by  the  late  terri- 
ble experience,  and  the  narrow  escape  of  their  little 
family  from  disgrace  and  ruin,  were  deeply  thankful 
for  that  escape.  Ernest  Mulford  had  informed  them 
of  the  large  share  of  Mr.  Lear  in  the  success  of  his 
own  efforts,  and  they  had  invited  the  detective  to  dine 
at  their  home  on  this  day.  Ernest  was  there,  also;  and 
as  June  was  not  yet  able  to  walk  about,  and  hardly 
strong  enough  to  stand,  he  claimed  the  privilege  of 
drawing  her  in  her  easy-chair  back  and  forth  between 
the  sitting  and  the  dining-room,  and  to  sit  by  her,  that 
he  might  attend  to  her  wants. 

Mrs.  Gregory  had  recognized  in  the  detective  an 
old  friend  and  acquaintance  of  her  young  days  at  Dins- 
more.  The  subject  of  the  early  love  of  this  man  for 
her  sister  Jane  was  rather  too  delicate  a  one  to  be 
much  talked  about,  even  in  this  small  circle;  but  from 
the  little  that  Mr.  Lear  permitted  to  be  said  upon  it, 
Ernest  saw  that  the  tender  recollections  which  Mr. 
Lear  cherished  for  his  deceased  mother  had  prompted 
him  to  come  so  powerfully  to  his  own  assistance  in  this 
critical  time. 


160   THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION 

The  detective  was  restive  under  the  warm  acknowl- 
edgments and  fervent  thanks  showered  upon  him  by 
the  four  persons  present.  He  tried  to  protest  that  "  it 
was  all  a  matter  of  business,"  and  that  "such  things 
have  become  easy  to  me,  by  long  experience;'*  but  it 
would  not  do. 

"  I  want  to  know  how  I  can  reward  you,  sir," 
Ephraim  Gregory  warmly  said.  "  I  am  not  exactly 
rich,  but  I  am  comfortably  well-off.  Money  cannot 
pay  for  such  service  as  you  have  done  for  us;  but  any- 
thing in  reason  you  can  ask  me  for." 

"  I  shall  ask  you  for  nothing,  Mr.  Gregory,  except 
to  be  a  guest  occasionally  in  your  house,  should  I 
remain  in  this  part  of  the  country,  as  I  am  quite  likely 
to  do.  It  is  as  you  say;  there  are  some  things  that 
money  cannot  pay  for.  Of  that  sort  is  all  that  I  have 
done,  or  may  be  able  to  do,  for  the  son  of  JaneMulford 
—  and  for  the  lady  whom  I  hope  before  long  to  salute 
as  Mrs.  Mulford,"  he  added,  bowing  to  June,  who 
smiled,  colored,  and  was  not  offended.  "  Money  is  no 
object  to  me;  otherwise  I  should  not  have  left  the 
Great  West,  where  of  late  the  year  has  been  a  poor 
one  that  has  not  yielded  me  ten  thousand  dollars  in  my 
vocation.  Now,  let  us  change  the  subject.  Mr.  Mul- 
ford will  remember  that  on  the  evening  when  he 
returned  with  you  and  your  daughter,  Mr.  Gregory,  to 
Bardwell,  I  told  him  that  there  was  a  most  astonishing 
revelation  to  be  made,  which  would  be  of  the  greatest 
importance  to  him  and  Miss  Gregory;  but  I  refused  to 
inform  him  then  what  it  was,  as  it  seemed  better  to 
wait  until  I  could  give  it  to  you  four  together.  That 
time  has  now  come." 

They  were  all  attention  and  listened  eagerly  while 
he  proceeded: 

"  First,  I  will  read  you  the  confession  left  by  that 
unhappy  woman  who  was  lately  buried  by  the  side  of 
the  man  she  loved  with  such  an  absorbing,  I  might  say 
such  an  unreasoning,  passion.  Poor  creature!  In 


THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION       161 

death  she  has  received  what  was  wrongfully,  basely 
denied  her  in  life  —  recognition  as  the  lawful  wife  of 
Weston  Mayhew.  That  she  was  his  wife,  there  cannot 
be  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

"  I  attended  the  coroner's  inquest  that  was  held  over 
her  and  directed  the  attention  of  the  coroner  to  the 
importance  of  securing  proof  upon  one  point  in  that 
investigation  which  had  not  occurred  to  him;  I  believe 
it  had  not  occurred  to  any  person  but  me.  My 
experience  in  such  cases  made  me  of  some  assistance 
upon  that  inquiry,  and  when  I  asked  the  coroner  to 
allow  me  to  make  a  copy  of  Mrs.  Phebe  Mayhew's 
dying  confession,  explaining  to  him  the  use  that  I 
wished  to  make  of  it,  he  cheerfully  consented. 

"  You  will  much  better  understand  what  I  am  about 
to  tell  you  by  first  hearing  that  confession." 

He  read  it  to  them.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
they  were  deeply  affected  by  it.  There  was  not  a  dry 
eye  in  the  room  when  he  had  finished;  his  own  voice 
trembled  a  little  toward  the  close. 

"  Let  us  now  call  your  attention,"  he  said,  "  to  cer- 
tain facts  that  were  developed  on  the  inquest. 

"  The  servant-girl,  Emilia  Grove,  testified  that  her 
mistress  dismissed- her  for  the  day  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  1 8th,  at  a  few  minutes  past  three. 

"  Both  she  and  her  mother  testified  that  Emilia 
reached  home  shortly  after  seven  o'clock. 

'  The  conversation  that  followed  between  the  two 
occupied  some  minutes.  It  seems  that  Mrs.  Grove 
had  become  suspicious  about  her  daughter  being  sent 
away  so  often  by  her  mistress.  She  thought  that  there 
was  something  wrong  in  the  frequent  desire  of  that 
lady  to  have  her  servant  away  from  the  house.  Mrs. 
Grove  is  a  strict  woman,  of  Scotch  descent,  and  very 
watchful  as  to  anything  that  could  bring  reproach  upon 
her  daughter.  She  ordered  Emilia  to  go  back  and  find 
out  what  was  going  on.  The  girl  had  a  real  regard  for 

A  Sharp  Night's  Work  iz 


162      THE  ,  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION 

her  mistress,  and  she  flatly  refused.  Mrs.  Grove,  with 
considerable  temper,  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and 
started  herself. 

"  At  this  point  of  the  inquiry,  I  whispered  to  the 
coroner,  and  he  asked  some  minute  questions. 

"  '  Mrs.  Grove,  can  you  say  what  time  it  was  when 
you  left  your  house?  ' 

"  '  Aye,  sir,  I  can.  I  looked  at  the  clock,  and  saw 
that  it  was  twenty  minutes  to  eight.' 

"  '  Are  you  quite  certain  as  to  that? ' 

"  '  Certain  sure,  sir.' 

"  '  Can  you  tell  how  long  it  took  you  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Bashford's  house?  ' 

"  '  Not  more  than  ten  minutes.1 

"  *  How  can  you  be  positive  of  that? ' 

"  '  Well,  sir;  in  this  way:  More  than  once  within  a 
few  weeks  past,  I  have  walked  straight  there  from  my 
house,  to  see  Em  about  something  or  other;  and  once 
I  timed  myself,  just  out  of  idle  curiosity,  and  found  that 
it  took  just  ten  minutes.  On  the  evening  of  the  1 8th 
I  was  a  little  provoked  by  Em's  stubbornness,  and  I 
know  I  walked  a  little  faster  than  usual.' 

"  'You  swear,  then,  that  you  got  to  Mrs.  Bashford's 
as  early  as  ten  minutes  before  eight? ' 

"  'That's  it,  sir;  I'm  positive  of  it.' 

"  The  daughter,  I  may  state,  thoroughly  corrobor- 
ated her  mother  as  to  the  question  of  time. 

"  I  resume  my  story. 

"  Immediately  upon  arriving  at  Mrs.  Bashford's, 
Mrs.  Grove  rang  the  door-bell.  Without  waiting  to 
have  it  answered,  she  tried  the  door.  It  was  locked. 
The  house  was  dark.  She  went  along  the  verandah, 
and  at  one  of  the  windows,  I  presume  the  same  one 
where  I  made  important  discoveries  one  night,  she 
made  the  first  discovery  of  the  tragedy  of  that  night. 

"  She  unfastened  the  blind,  and  looked  through  the 
window  under  the  curtain. 


THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION       163 

"  What  she  saw,  she  described  in  a  few  abrupt  sen- 
tences. I  copied  them  from  the  coroner's  minutes." 

The  detective  read  from  another  slip  of  paper. 

"  I  saw  the  bed-room  door  open.  The  chamber  was 
lighted  from  a  lamp  that  I  could  not  see.  I  saw  the 
foot  of  the  bed.  There  was  a  hand  thrown  over  the 
foot-board.  A  woman's  head  hung  over  the  side  of 
the  bed,  her  hair  loose  and  sweeping  the  floor.  The 
face  was  toward  me,  turned  upside  down,  and  the  great 
ejfes  were  fixed,  and  staring  in  the  most  horrible  way. 
She  was  perfectly  still;  not  a  hair  of  her  head  moved." 

"  Upon  seeing  this  terrible  sight,"  the  detective  went 
on,  "  Mrs.  Grove  rushed  home  in  a  panic.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  incredulous  as  to  the  story  that  she  told  her  in 
a  few  gasping  words,  but  went  immediately  back  to  the 
house,  her  frightened  mother  following  a  long  way 
after.  Emelia  entered  the  house  by  means  of  the  key 
to  the  front  door  that  she  had  always  been  allowed  to 
have,  and  repaired  to  the  fatal  chamber.  She  found 
the  body  of  her  mistress  in  precisely  the  position  that 
her  mother  had  described,  and  perfectly  motionless. 
The  girl  was  terrified,  as  a  matter  of  course;  but  she 
testified  to  two  items  that  are  of  the  greatest  import- 
ance, and  which  show  that  she  had  her  wits  about 
her. 

I "  One  was,  that  she  lifted  up  Mrs.   Bashford's  arm, 
and  that  it  fell  like  lead  when  she  let  it  go. 

"  The  other  was,  that  her  eye  happened  to  rest  on  a 
small  clock  on  the  chamber-mantel,  as  she  fled  from  the 
room. 

'  The  hands  pointed  to  twenty  minutes  past  eight. 

"What  followed,  you  have  heard  about.  The  almost 
frantic  women,  in  their  search  for  Dr.  Eldridge,  did 
not  reach  him  till  more  than  an  hour  later,  when  Emelia 
found  him  in  this  house,  soon  after  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Mulford.  The  doctor  went  immediately  to  the  death- 
chamber  with  the  women,  reaching  there,  as  he  thinks, 
shortly  before  ten  o'clock.  He  found  the  suicide  dead, 


164       THE  DETECTIVE'S  NEW  REVELATION 

the  body  still  remaining  in  the  position  in  which  both 
the  women  had  seen  it.  He  called  them  in  to  take 
particular  notice  of  its  appearance,  of  the  empty  vial 
on  the  table,  strong  with  the  scent  of  prussic  acid,  and 
of  the  disordered  appearance  of  the  bed,  plainly  show- 
ing a  dying  struggle. 

"  Right  here,  remember  that  the  last  entry  of  time 
in  the  confession  is  half-past  seven,  and  that  there  is 
little  written  after  that. 

"  Dr.  Eldridge's  testimony  was  very  direct  and  posi- 
tive. 

"'The  woman  died  of  prussic  acid,' he  said.  'A 
few  drops  remained  in  the  vial,  which  I  analyzed,  and 
I  find  it  the  strongest  and  deadliest  solution  of  that 
powerful  poison  known  to  the  medical  science.  Much 
less  than  half  an  ounce  would  kill  a  healthy  person  in 
two  minutes. 

"  'Judging  from  her  appearance  as  seen  by  Mrs. 
Grove, 'the  coroner  asked,  '  do  you  think  she  was  then 
dead  or  alive?' 

"  'Dead,  unquestionably. 

"  'And  when  seen  by  Emelia  Grove  a  little  later? ' 

"  'Dead,  of  course.  Her  experiment  with  the  arm 
would  show  it.' 

"  'But  you  saw  the  corpse  shortly  before  two,  as  you 
say.  You  then  gave  it  a  careful  examination.  How 
long,  in  your  judgment,  had  this  woman  been  dead  at 
that  time?' 

"  'I  can  speak  with  positiveness.  It  could  not  have 
been  less  than  two  hours.' 

"  Now,  Mr.  Gregory,"  said  the  detective,  "  you  may 
tell  us  when  your  daughter  was  married  to  Weston 
Mayhew." 

"  At  precisely  half-past  eight,"  was  the  prompt  re- 
sponse. "  I  timed  it  with  my  own  watch. " 

The  detective  looked  at  June  and  Ernest,  as  they  sat 
together.  A  shadow  of  the  meaning  of  these  strange 
developments  was  stealing  over  the  girl's  face,  but  the 


RECOMPENSE  165 

quick  mind  of  Ernest  had  already  leaped  forward,  and 
grasped  the  disturbing  truth.  He  started  up  and  held 
out  both  hands  in  entreaty. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Lear,  say  no  more !  For  June's 
peace  of  mind,  please  drop  the  subject.  You  have  been 
our  friend;  don't  distress  us  with  such  a  shocking  fact 
as  all  this  evidence  points  to." 

"  My  dear  Ernest,  I  must  go  on!  I  must  state  the 
truth,  just  as  it  is,  just  as  my  close  investigations  have 
established  it.  It  is  not  to  distress  either  of  you;  it 
is  to  lead  the  way  to  the  most  astounding  part  of  this 
whole  affair,  and  one  that  you  will  both  rejoice  to 
know. 

"  First,  then,  it  is  established  by  certain  proof  that 
Phebe  Mayhew,  wife  of  Weston  Mayhew,  died  before 
eight  o'clock  on  the  night  of  September  i8th. 

"  Second,  that  Weston  Mayhew  was  married  to 
June  Gregory  at  least  half  an  hour  later. 

"  Mr.  Mayhew,  then,  had  been  a  widower  at  least 
thirty  minutes  prior  to  this  last  marriage! 

"  He  no  doubt  intended  to  commit  bigamy;  but  he 
did  not.  Unknown  to  himself,  he  was  legally  free,  and 
capable  of  marrying  again,  at  half-past  eight.  You, 
Miss  Gregory,  then  became  his  lawful  wife.  You  are 
now  his  lawful  widow.  Your  name  is  Mrs.  June 
Mayhew.  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

RECOMPENSE. 

AT  this  startling  announcement  June  uttered  a  low 
cry,  and  placed  a  hand  on  Ernest's  shoulder,  as  if  fear- 
ing that  some  undefinable  harm  was  yet  to  come  to  her 
from  her  dead  and  buried  husband  of  half- a- day. 
Ernest  threw  an  arm  about  her,  and  looked  anxiously 
at  the  detective.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gregory  were  troubled 
and  distressed. 


I 66  RECOMPENSE 

Mr.  Lear  went  rapidly  on. 

"  Be  assured,  my  friends,  if  it  had  been  merely  to 
establish  a  curious  fact,  I  should  never  have  taken  all 
this  trouble.  I  had  a  definite  object  in  view  from  the 
first.  I  saw  consequences  of  the  largest  kind  depend- 
ing upon  the  proof  of  the  fact  that  I  have  just  stated 
to  you. 

"  Return  now,  for  an  instant,  to  the  deceased  Mrs. 
Mayhew's  confession.  Mark  her  words,  where  she 
says  of  her  husband: 

"  '  He  told  me  that  he  had  no  parents  living,  no 
brothers  nor  sisters,  nor  children  of  brothers  or  sisters,; 
that  he  had  no  relations  on  earth  but  two  distant 
cousins. ' 

"  After  reading  that  statement,  I  was  very  anxious 
to  verify  it.  For  the  last  three  days  I  have  employed 
the  telegraph  across  the  continent  to  establish  the  truth 
of  those  words;  and  I  have  entirely  satisfied  myself 
that  they  are  true.  I  learn  that  the  sole  surviving 
relatives  of  the  deceased,  Weston  Mayhew — excepting 
his  widow — are  two  persons  living  in  Sacramento,  both 
wealthy,  and  both  cousins,  three  degrees  removed. 

"  Mr.  Mayhew,  as  you  all  know,  left  an  estate  valued 
at  two  hundred  thousand  dollars.  It  consists  entirely 
of  personal  property;  it  is  all  in  this  State. 

"  To  whom  will  the  law  give  it?  ; 

"  The  facts,  as  you  have  seen,  I  have  settled  beyond 
a  question.  Now  let  me  read  an  extract  that  I  took 
to-day  from  the  statute-book  of  this  State: 

"  '  If  the  deceased  leave  a  widow,  and  no  descendant, 
parent,  brother  or  sister,  nephew  or  niece,  the  widow 
shall  be  entitled  to  the  whole  stirplus. ' 

"  I  think  you  understand  me  now!  Mrs.  Mayhew, 
I  can  understand  how  it  may  be  a  very  disagreeable 
thing,  after  everything  that  has  happened,  for  you  to 
bear  that  name;  and  I  think  you  are  quite  correct  in 
desiring  to  change  it  speedily  to  some  other  name  — 
Mulford,  for  instance.  But  I  tell  you  that  your  right 


R1COM1BNSB  167 

to  that  name  also  gives  you  the  right  to  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  left  by  the  deceased." 

There  is  a  certain  bewilderment  caused  by  such  an 
announcement  as  this,  that  no  person  is  superior  to. 
The  detective  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  enjoying  the 
amazement  that  he  had  caused.  Mrs.  Gregory  was  the 
first  to  find  her  tongue. 

"  O,  June!  "  she  cried.     "Ought  you  to  take  it?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  her  lover,  silently  appealing  to 
him  to  answer. 

"  If  you  leave  it  to  me  to  say,"  said  Ernest  Mulford, 
slowly  and  deliberately,  "  I  am  perfectly  prepared  with 
an  answer.  That  bad  man  has  gone  to  his  account;  it 
is  not  for  us  to  judge  him;  I  am  not  judging  him  in 
what  I  shall  say.  But  just  reflect  on  how  the  last  two 
months  of  his  life  were  passed!  All  that  man  could 
do  to  blast  the  good  name  of  another  he  did  towards 
me.  He  separated  June  and  me  by  his  falsehoods;  he 
kept  us  separated  by  his  crimes;  he  sought  deliberately 
to  make  her  the  innocent  victim  of  his  unhallowed  de- 
sires, to  ruin  her  happiness  for  life,  as  well  as  mine. 
And  he  almost  succeeded!  Heavens!  I  shudder  now, 
when  I  think  by  what  a  narrow  and  desperate  chance 
he  failed  in  condemning  June  to  misery.  Well,  out  of 
the  strange  complications  of  this  case  it  seems  that 
the  law  gives  his  property  to  her.  He  has  two  very 
distant  relatives,  both  rich.  Shall  June  take  it?  Why 
should  she  not?  I  regard  it  as  some  recompense  to 
her  for  what  she  has  suffered.  Not  very  often  does 
the  law  deal  so  justly  and  righteously  as  it  will  with 
her.  Shall  she  take  it?  I  say  yes,  most  assuredly." 

"  And  you  are  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Lear. 


1 68  LAST   SCENE   OF  ALL 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL. 

WHEN,  a  few  weeks  later,  Ernest  and  June  became 
husband  and  wife,  and  came  into  possession  of  this  for-, 
tune,  they  did  not  forget  those,  who  by  their  tireless 
devotion  during  those  tremendous  and  critical  hours  of 
the  night  of  the  i8th  and  the  morning  of  the  iQth  of 
September  had  helped  make  their  happiness  possible. 

They  took  no  "  wedding-tour."  The  mere  mention 
of  the  name  caused  Mrs.  Mulford  to  shudder,  from  the 
associations  it  recalled.  Their  honey-moon  was  passed 
in  the  quiet  and  comfort  of  the  Gregory  mansion. 

They  varied  their  own  happiness,  they  added  to  it, 
by  going  about  and  doing  good  to  those  who  had  aided 
them  when  they  sorely  needed  help. 

Their  first  care  was  for  the  widow  and  orphan  child- 
ren of  the  heroic  engineer  who  had  died  at  his  post 
of  duty.  They  visited  the  widow,  they  condoled  with 
her,  and  surprised  and  delighted  her  with  a  check  for 
five  thousand  dollars. 

The  fireman,  too,  was  remembered  in  a  substantial 
and  most  acceptable  way. 

Ted  Vaun  had  insisted  on  being  carried  to  his  home 
near  Drayton,  as  soon  as  the  doctor  would  permit  it. 
There  they  found  him,  in  bed  with  his  broken  leg,  but 
cheerful,  and  delighted  to  see  them. 

They  stayed  an  hour  with  him.  He  highly  enjoyed 
the  visit,  and  expressed  no  end  of  gratification  that 
everything  had  turned  out  so  well.  Ernest  told  him 
that  he  should  pay  all  the  expense  of  his  sickness,  and 
that  he  might  call  on  him  for  anything  he  wanted. 

"Oh,  I  will —  when  I  want  anything,"  Ted  re- 
plied. "  Don't  know  when  that'll  be,  though.  One 
thing  I  want,  though;  when  I  get  able  to  drive  again, 
I  want  to  take  you  two  on  a  long  ride  behind  them 
animals.  Nothing  like  'em  in  these  parts.  But  for 


LAST   SCENE    OF    ALL  169 

that  cussed  stone  they'd  have  have  got  you  through  in 
time,  sure!  David  came  right  back  home  himself, 
that  night.  They're  powerful  good  hosses  —  but,  as  I 
told  you,  David  is  a  leetle  —  just  a  leetle  —  the  best." 

The  kind  Bartrams  were  not  forgotten.  For  some 
years  Wally  had  fretted  under  an  uncomfortable  mort- 
gage on  his  little  place.  Ernest  paid  it  off,  and  he  and 
his  wife  gratified  the  honest  pair  by  making  them  a 
day's  visit. 

Emmett  Ashley  had  no  need  to  be  helped  in  a  mate- 
rial way;  but  he  was  a  guest  at  the  wedding,  where  few 
were  invited,  was  running  over  with  good  nature  and 
was  proud  in  the  friendship  of  the  bride  and  groom. 
He  took  a  personal  interest  in  happiness  that  he  had 
done  so  much  to  secure. 

That  wedding  was  a  quiet,  unostentatious  affair. 
Through  dark  ways  and  devious  paths  these  two  had 
finally  reached  their  happy  goal.  And  "  all's  well  that 
ends  well." 

It  is  the  wedding  night.  The  simple  ceremony  is 
over;  the  supper  has  been  eaten;  the  congratulations 
spoken,  the  guests  have  departed.  It  is  late  at  night; 
the  house  is  still  and  dark. 

But  not  entirely  dark.  In  the  chamber  of  Elias  Lear, 
still  an  honored  guest  at  this  mansion,  and  urged  to 
prolong  his  stay,  a  light  burns. 

The  detective  has  been  sitting  alone  for  an  hour.  He 
has  been  thinking  of  the  past;  the  recent  past,  the  past 
far  gone.  Tenderly,  sadly  has  he  thought  of  it.  The 
happiness  of  June  and  Ernest  has  given  him  the  deepest 
satisfaction.  He  thinks  of  them  as  though  they  were 
his  own  children.  But  his  thoughts  go  back  to  another, 
whom  he  may  not  see.  The  old  man  becomes  young 
again.  He  takes  her  picture  from  its  place  near  his 
heart;  he  gazes  with  a  kind  of  rapture  at  the  beautiful 
face;  he  kisses  it  again. 


LAST    SCBNE   OF   ALL 

"  I  have  done  what  would  have  pleased  her,'*  fee 
murmurs.  "  Does  she  not  know  it?" 

And  he  seeks  his  tranquil  pillow,  as  one  who  knows 
that  the  greatest  blessing  of  this  life  is: 

"  To  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good." 


THE  END. 


PIANOS. 


The  Pianos  bearing  the  above  name  stand  pre-eminently  in  the  front 
rank,  and  are  conceded  to  be  the  highest  achievement  in  the  art  of  piano 
manufacturing,  containing,  in  a  wonderful  degree,  all  the  essential  qualities 
of  a  perfect  piano. 

FAULTLESS  TONE, 

PERFECTION  IN  ACTION, 

EXTREME  DURABILITY, 

ELEGANCE  IN  DESIGN  and  FINISH. 
And  are  universally  endorsed  by  leading  musicians  and  musical  people. 

SHONINGER  ORGANS 

ARE  THE  LEADING  ORGANS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Because  they  are  the  best. 

These  celebrated  Organs  have  been  before  the  public  for  over  thirty-five  years,  and  aro 
acknowledged  to  be  the  BEST  ORGANS  KTOW  HADE. 

Medals  and  Fh-st  Premium  wherever  exhibited. 

OVER    95,000    IN     USE. 

ESTAJ3L.ISHE3D    185O. 

Semd  for  catalogue  to 

*B.  s^ionsriisroEi^L  oo., 

345  STATE  STREET,  CHICAGO. 
Factories,  New  Haven,  Conn. 


SHORT  V  LINE 

F-i^onvc 
C  H  I  C  AG  0  (Via  C.,  M.  &  St.  P.  Ey.) 


-  TO  - 

PINTO  m  MODE, 

HARLffETTE,  WIS.        FT.  HOWARD,  WIS. 
GREEN  BAY,  WIS.  DE  PERE,  WIS. 

NEENAH,  WIS.  MENASHA,  WIS. 

APPLETON,  WIS. 

MARQTTETTE,  Mich.  HANCOCK,  Mich. 

ISHPEMING,  Mich.          HOUGHTON,  Mich. 
NEGAUNEE,  Mich.  L'ANSE,  Mich. 

EEP  UBLIC,  Mich.  CHAMPION,  Mich. 

CALUMET,  Mich. 
And  all  Paints  on  the  G.  B.  W.  &  St.  P.  Railway. 

PULLMAN  PALACE  SLEEPING  CARS 

ON  ALL  NIGHT  TRAINS. 


C.  F.  DUTTON,  W.  B.  SHEARDOWN, 

General  Superintendent.  General  Ticket  Agent. 


KAMAKEE  LINE, 

THE  POPULAR  ROUTE  BETWEEN 


The  Best  and  Quickest  Route  between  Chicago  and  Chattanooga, 

Atlanta,  Macon,  Savannah,  Jacksonville,  Florida, 

and  all  points  in  the  Southeast. 


THE  ENTIRE  TRAINS 

run  through  without  change  between  Chicago,  Lafayette,  Indianapolis 
and  Cincinnati.  Elegant  Parlor  Cars  on  Day  Trains.  Pullman  Sleepers 
and  Luxurious  Reclining  Chair  Cars  on  Night  Trains.  Pullman  Sleeper 
Cars  through  without  change  from  Cincinnati  to  Jacksonville,  Florida. 

Special  Pullman  Sleepers  between  Chicago  and  Indianapolis.  Passen- 
gers arriving  in  Indianapolis  at  3 125  a.  m.  may  remain  in  the  car  until 
8  o'clock.  North-bound,  the  car  will  be  ready  to  receive  passengers  at  9  p.  m. 
and  will  stand  on  spur  track  west  of  Union  Depot. 

Trains  depart  from  and  arrive  at  Lake  Street,  Twenty-second  Street 
and  Thirty-ninth  Street  Depots,  Chicago,  the  Union  Depot,  Indianapolis, 
and  Grand  Central  Passenger  Station,  Cincinnati,  which  is  situated  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  city  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  principal 
hotels  and  business  center. 

Connection  with  all  Trains 

of  Cincinnati  Southern  Ry.,  C.  W.  &  B.  and  C.  C.  C.  &  I.  Ry.,  are  made 
in  the  same  depot  at  Cincinnati,  thus  avoiding  the  tedious  omnibus  transfer 
incident  to  other  lines. 

Tickets  for  sale  at  the  principal  ticket  offices. 

Tor  detailed  information,  Time  Tables,  Maps,  Rates  of  Passage  of 
The  Kankakee  Line,  Address 

J.  C.  TUCKER, 
Gen'l  N.  W.  Pass.  Agt.,  121  Randolph  St.,  CHJCAUO. 

JOHN  EGAtf,  Gen'l  Pass,  and  Ticket  Agt.,  Cincinnati,  O. 


THE  GREATEST  DETECTIVE  STORY 

EVER  WRITTEN. 


This  sterling  romance  possesses  all  the  strength  of  a  marvel- 
•usly  developed  story  of  detective  experience,  and  yet  has  a  grand, 
realistic  basis  upon  which  ft  is  founded.  ITS  OFFICIAL  RECOG- 
NITION IS  MADE  MANIFEST  by  the  following  letter: 

City  of  Chicago,  Department  of  Police, 

CHICAGO,  August  I,  1886. 
6EO.  W.  06ILVIE,  Publisher,  Chicago,  III.: 

DEAR  SIR— In  furnishing  the  facts  concerning  the  celebrated 
Artesian  Well  tragedy,  which  form  the  initial  chapter  of  "  Manacle 
and  Bracelet,"  we  have  given  many  details  hitherto  unknown  to  the 
public. 

The  dark  deeds  committed  by  the  criminal  elasses  are  often  hid 
by  Impenetrable  mystery,  as  in  this  noted  case,  and  the  sagacity  of 
the  police,  the  shrewdness  of  the  assassin,  and  ait  the  elements  of 
Intrigue  and  plot,  present  in  such  tragedies,  have  been  woven  into  a 
romajise  of  rare  interest,  with  what  Is  most  unusual,  a  basis  of  soJid 
feets.  Truly  yours,  JOSEPH  KIPLEY, 

JOHN  D.  SHEA, 
Chiefs  of  Deteetlvis. 

No  pains  or  expense  havo  been  spared  In  the  illustrations  of  this 
story,  and  it  will  delight  the  reader  and  open  a  new  and  varied 
field  of  genuine  detective  exploit.  "  Manacle  and  Bracelet "  It  M 
ordinary  romance,  and  will  prove  beyond  doiibt  the  great  snooess  of 
the  year. 


FOR  SALE  BY  THE  NEWS  AGENT  ON  THIS  TRAIN. 


ESTABLISHED  IN  1877. 


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Dr.  H.  N.  JD.  JPARKER,  Proprietor. 

Office.  Room  10 — 113  Adams  St.,  North-east  cor.  Clark. 

OFFICE  HOURS:  ELKVATOR  ENTRANCE, 

10  to  12  and  1  to  &  4BMt  113  Adams  Street. 


A  METHOD  OF  CURE  WITHOUT  MEDICINE. 


For  Paralysis^  Rheumatism,  Consumption,  Asthma,  Insomnia,  Neuresthenia,  Ner- 
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Kidneys,  Liver,  Spleen,  Heart,  Digestive  Organs,  Diseases  of  the  Brain,  Nerves 
and  Nerve  centers,  Curvatures  of  the  Spine,  Tumors,  Shrunken,  Atrophied  or  Un- 
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For  the  overworked,  either  physically  or  mentally,  this  treatment  is  of  inesti- 
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to  any  and  all  parts  of  the  diseased  body.  This  improved  circulation  produces 
health.  Its  stoppage  in  any  part  produces  disease  to  that  part,  and  if  not  arrested 
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ZVi-e  Vacuum  Treatment  immediately  restores  the  circulation  of  the  life- 
giving  fluids  to  any  and  all  parts  of  the  body, restoring  the  diseased  body  (or  parts 
of  it)  to  a  strong  and  healthy  condition.  The  above  cut  partly  illustrates  my 
method  of  treating  disease.  I  have  instruments  for  treating  every  part  of  the  body. 
By  its  means  I  am  enabled  to  withdraw,  displace  accumulate  or  concentrate  a  >art 
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blood,  well  circulated  through  free  channels.  In  chronic  diseases  the  capillaries, 
or  small  blood  vessels,  become  contracted  or  obstructed  by  the  accumulation  of 
morbid  matter;  hence,  disease  of  every  name  or  nature.  It  is  through  the  CAPIL- 
LARIES that  the  body  is  nourished;  the  restoration  of  the  circulation  of  the  blood 
to  the  diseased  organs  restores  that  organ  to  its  normal  condition,  HEALTH. 

The  proprietor  and  manager  ox  this  Institute,  Dr.  H.  N.  D.  PARKER, 
has  had  Twenty  Tears*  practical  experience  with  the  Pneumatic-Equalizer  01 
Vacuum  Treatment,  for  the  CURE  of  Acute  and  Chronic  Disease  without 
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Pamphlets  containing  •valuable  information  regarding  this  method,  and  tes- 
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